


Where the Grass Grows I: We May Yet Stand

by Ragnelle



Series: Where the Grass Grows Green [1]
Category: Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Dark, Character Death, Gen, What if Sauron won?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-12
Updated: 2012-10-13
Packaged: 2017-11-07 12:47:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 138,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/431376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ragnelle/pseuds/Ragnelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Quest failed. Sam killed Gollum before the Ring was destroyed and now darkness rules the lands of Middle-earth. A small group from the resistance battles both hunger and mistrust, to keep hope alive. But will the sacrifices outweigh the gain? </p><p>Book one of six. MEFA 3rd place 2011, incomplete stories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

  
[](http://s10.photobucket.com/albums/a145/Ragnelle/Banners/?action=view&current=MEFA3rd.jpg)   


 

...

 

_“Oh Samwise, bravest and truest of men._  
Oh Samwise, Gardener of The Shire.  
Samwise, you with earth beneath your fingernails 

_Oh Samwise, did you know what sorrow you would cause? With one bright stab of anger, one rash act born of love and fear, you sealed the fate of your master. Oh Samwise, why did you not stay your hand? Why did you not spare the creature?_

_Oh, Sam! How should you have known it would have spared the world?”_

_Unknown lament._

_…_

_“If [Sauron] regains [the Ring], your valour is vain, and his victory will be swift and complete: so complete that none can foresee the end of it while this world lasts.”_

_Gandalf at The Last Debate_.

…

Gandalf was considered among the Wise, and his advice and predictions were seldom wrong. But though indeed it seemed, for a while, that Sauron’s reign would endure until the last age had passed, it was not so.

The grass still grew long on the wide plains, and thick in the hidden valleys of the mountain range, stubborn as weeds. Last to give way, and first to re-grow, though trampled by iron-shoes.


	2. Triumf of the Shadow

" _The armies of Mordor hesitated and the Nazgûl turned under the attack of the eagles and fled towards the Dark Land. For a moment the hearts of all the armies of the West was lifted and victory seemed within our grasp._

_Then a great shadow rose up over the Dark land. It took the shape of a hand that claw-like stretched out towards the West, and as it closed our short-lived hope flickered and died._

_The silence that had fallen over the field was broken by shouts of triumph from our enemies. Roaring they attacked anew and the noise of their voices deafened all other sounds. Some of our men dropped their weapons to cover their ears and the horses cried in fear. All that stood in the first lines were killed or swept away in the rush and our formations wavered._

_Underneath his banner on the other hill lord Aragorn stood. I could not hear his commands over the din of the fighting, but I could see one of his men take the banner. A turn of the head, and our eyes met. He gestured westwards. A short nod and then I had only time to see him raise his sword and stride down the hill, leading his men to meet the onslaught._

_That was the last I saw of him._

_I ordered the men to mount what horses were left, and the White Horse charged down the hill. Running across the black field it led its herd, keeping us together._

_I do not know how we were able to break though the lines of the enemy. In the midst of battle I could see little but the enemy before me and after we charged there was no break that would let me see how the battle went. There was little enough need; we had lost, and we knew it. All that was left was to try to save what lives I could._

_It was a desperate charge. We knew we were doomed, and that may have aided us. We cut through the ranks of lesser Orcs, easily trampled by the horses – there was little need for sword-work – and our desperation made us fearless. What did we have to lose by charging heedless into the throng? Better to die on horseback, sword in hand and spears set. Better to die riding, feeling the horses move beneath us, running, running, running; bearing us out of this life beyond the darkness of our desperate failure._

_It was not until later I learned that the main body of the enemy had pressed past us, pursuing the White Tree and Seven Stars. It lessened the ranks that barred our way and I am certain that this was what enabled our escape. This, and the valour of our steeds. Their swiftness bore us away, and their hearts it was that held until our enemy was left behind._

_Scarce two éoreds returned to bear news to the City of Stone. Among us some of Imrahil's knights had escaped but they were few, for many had not followed our charge but rushed to help their lord. I could not fault them though their aid yielded little but their deaths._

_None on foot returned."_

These were the words of Éomer king, set down so that the few testimonies that remain from that time shall not be lost. I have taken it upon myself to preserve the tale of those days, for few are now alive that remember them and their bravery should not be forgotten. It is a dark tale, and I pondered long on whether such a dark tale should be told. Yet I have decided to tell it faithfully and truthfully, so that by knowing the darkness our fathers lived through, we will better preserve what light they bought us.

When the survivors from the battle at the Gate reached Minas Tirith it was thought that the enemy would follow quickly. Soon, however, it became clear that either the outpost by the River was holding back the invasion longer than it was thought possible, or the Enemy, being sure of victory, did not intend to strike quickly. Therefore Éomer king – for he was already king though in later days his kingdom was for a time lost – spoke with the Steward and it was decided that those that were willing should seek to escape the Shadow and leave the City to find hidden places from where they could continue to fight the Dark.

Many of those that had come from the southern fiefdoms after the capture of the Corsair fleet by the lord Elfstone wished to return south in the hope of protecting the people there, and to warn Dol Amroth of the coming defeat. They manned the Black Fleet and sailed down the Anduin, but Éomer king would not forsake the Riddermark and his own people. He sent riders to find Elfheim and bide him return to the Mark. There he would send news to all of their defeat and bid all that were left to be prepared.

With the surviving Riders and those of the men of Gondor that would follow him, the king took the road by which he had come, seeking the cover of the Druedan forest to hide their passage as long as they could. With him travelled the Halfling, Meriadoc Brandibuck, and the sister of the king, the lady Éowyn. Neither the lady nor the Halfling had been willing to leave at first, but Éomer king overruled them both and they could not gainsay his words.

"If all who still can fight the Enemy are killed, there will be none left to protect those who can not."

"Brother," the lady Éowyn had answered. "What you say is true, but there are many men that follow you and one or two more or less will make little difference. My taste for battle has lessened and I do not wish to wield my sword in endless fight, nor do I wish to leave this place that has become dear to me. More important still; I cannot leave knowing those I leave behind will be slaughtered or worse."

"Nor could I," the Halfling had added. "My friends went all to battle and died, I was left behind. I do not wish to flee now and leave others to die, least of all your sister. I will stay with her, even if it means death."

"Then you had better make yourself ready to leave, master Holdwine," the king replied, "for my sister will travel with me."

He turned to his sister again, and his voice was stern. "Éowyn," he said. "My duty is to our people as is yours. You abandoned them once, but this time I will not tolerate it. If I have to bring you under guard, I will do it." He swallowed once, then met her eyes. "Sister," he said, "how can I leave you behind? How can I fight knowing that I left you for death or torture? When I found you lying as dead on the Pelennor, I led my men to ruin in my grief. Only luck and the arrival of the lord Aragorn saved us that day; I can not risk my people that way again."

"Éowyn, " he said. "You must live!"

And turning towards Meriadoc he continued: "You must both live. Do you not know that of all of us that still are free, you must live? Live and escape the Enemy? You destroyed his greatest servant. If he finds you, he will destroy you utterly; crush you into dust and use you as an example to crush us. And we who are left need you to live, so that we can hope."

At those words the lady bowed her head and consented, and the Halfling with her. But she cried bitterly for that which she would leave behind.

That evening Éowyn came to her brother with still-fresh tears on her face, but when he rose to comfort her, she would not let him.

"Brother," she said, "when must we leave?"

"Upon the morrow," he answered. "We dare not wait any longer."

"The morrow?" she cried. "But we can not! It is too soon, surely we can spare more time; the Enemy has not yet come within a day's march from the River. The gravely wounded are not yet ready to be moved."

"Éowyn, we dare not wait. We cannot take the wounded with us. You know this; you were there when the lord Faramir took their protection upon him."

"Faramir has too few men left to protect them, too few to protect anyone. You will take too many with you; you know, as well as I, that all we leave behind will die! Do not lie to me or to yourself, brother."

"Sister!" He reached for her, but she evaded him again. "Éowyn," he pleaded. "More than the wounded trouble you. This despair… ah, sister, do not let the darkness take you again. We can only hope that the lord Aragorn fell in battle, for now he is lost, but he would not want you lost as well. He…"

"Brother," she stopped him. "I grieve the loss of lord Aragorn, but not to the point of despair. Still, though it grieves me to leave the wounded to such a harsh fate, I know it cannot be helped. You are right; there is someone else for whom I would stay, had he but let me."

At that he caught her hands and drew her into his arms, holding her close.

"Éowyn," he said. "Who is this man? Is he among the wounded that he can not follow us?"

"No," she said. "I met him in the Houses of Healing, for he was wounded, yes, but he has recovered far quicker than I. It is his duty that forbids him to abandon the City."

"I know but one…"

"Faramir," she said, and her voice broke.

He held her in silence for a long time, unsure of what he should say. She stirred, and though he had not yet found the words, he spoke.

"Sister, what would you have me do?"

"I do not know. When Aragorn left for the paths of the Dead, I wished for glory and death in battle. Not so now, yet I can not bear to think that I have found a man whom I would wed only to lose him before the wedding-day."

"But would you bear to lose a husband mere days after your wedding-night?" Éomer asked. He held her out from him. "Look at me, Éowyn, and answer; what would you have me do?"

"I would rather live a widow than only with a widowed heart."

He drew her close again, and kissed her on the forehead. "Then I will speak with him." And leaving the chamber he went to find the Steward.

What words they spoke have not been told, nor has any tale been preserved that tells of that night, but in the morning the Lady of the Shieldarm covered her hair after the manner of the women of the Mark, and on her finger she wore a ring that once belonged to Faramir's mother. Not once did she turn back to see the White City as they rode off, for her farewells had all been said and to see him standing on the walls would destroy her resolve.

The lord Steward stood on the walls to see the last remains of the Free People leave. He bore no token save a strip of white cloth bound around his right arm, and he stirred not from that place until the last troop had disappeared from sight and the sun had climbed beyond the midday-height. He did not stir nor look away until he felt a shadow fall upon his back and saw it crawl over the City and the fields around. Only then did he turn to face the darkness spreading from the Land of Shadow. A darkness thicker, or so it seemed, than ever was the Dawnless Day.

"Seven ships," he mumbled. "Seven ships held the reminder of the Faithful of Atlantë. What ships can bear us now?"

And through the coming wave that would swallow Minas Tirith, Faramir bore the white cloth of the lady of Rohan upon his arm.

...

The men Elessar had sent to strengthen Cair Andros were able to hold off the vanguard of the armies of Mordor for a little while. None returned to tell of that battle, only the Enemy's troops and their testimony cannot be trusted.  _They_  boasted that it fell quickly, that the men had thrown down their weapons in fear and attempted to flee, but the army halted there for more than one day, and the Enemy is known for his lies.

King Éomer had left the city of Minas Tirith on the fourth of April and on the evening the same day the vanguard of the Enemy came to the ruins of Osgiliath. There they crossed the river and began their march towards the City. Faramir sent no force against them to halt their march across the Pelennor fields, for he did not want to divide those men he had left. He prepared to hold the Gates as long as was possible, and then to withdraw to the next level, closing off each level as they retreated, to hold off the enemy and buy as much time as they could for Éomer and the fleeing men.

They were able to hold the enemy for a longer time that any had thought possible, but this was more due to the Enemy's tactics than the skill of the defenders – though they fought bravely. The vanguard did not attack at once, but laid siege to the city and waited for the main army. It arrived in the evening the two days later, but it was smaller than they expected. The Enemy had regained his strength and was confident in his victory; he therefore did not waste his troops on the invasion of Gondor but sent much of his army to the north to strengthen Dol Guldur. Even so, what he sent to the White City was more than sufficient to overcome it.

The second attack on Minas Tirith began in the morning on the eighth of April. The fight for the Gates were short; the men left had no hope of prevailing against even the vanguard of Orcs that had first arrived, and even less when they had been joined by the lager army of corsairs and haradhrim. The army was lead by the Lieutenant of Barad-dûr, who was also known as the Mouth of Sauron but he had no other name, and he had brought with him prisoners with which to purchase the Steward's surrender, for the Enemy's plans were more subtle than could be seen at first, and more cruel. He also, it would be revealed later, had other concerns than the ruling of Gondor, and wished to make the Steward serve His purposes.

It amused the Lieutenant to let his men fight their way up to the last level of the City, seeing the useless determination of the defenders turn to desperation and despair; giving no quarter as they conquered one level after another.

At the seventh level the army halted. In row upon row they stood before the last gate. Dull torchlight revealed their numbers to the men within; too many to withstand even before the first battles had lessened their own numbers. Two lines of torches marked the road where the ranks opened to let a Man on horseback through. It was the Lieutenant of Barad-dûr who had come to deliver his final stroke.

"Where is the so-called Steward of this town?" he asked. "The Master, in his great mercy, will give him one last chance to spare his people."

"Speak," a voice from the battlements answered. "Lord Faramir, Steward of Gondor, hears you."

"Surrender thyself and the City," the Lieutenant said, "and thy life will be spared."

"I do not value my life over the freedom of Gondor," Faramir answered. "Have you no other terms? Then know that we will fight you and your master with what strength we have left."

At that the Lieutenant of Barad-dûr laughed, and his laugh was loud and mocking for he knew his plan. He waved his hand and more men came forward. All carried torches so that the place before the gate was clearly lit, and last they brought their prisoners. They were still clad in the clothes they wore when they left and on one could be seen the blue of Dol Amroth. The other's colours could not be made out but on his breast still hung, as in mockery, a green stone.

If the men of Gondor gave any sound to voice their despair, it was drowned in the jeers and sneers that the army of Mordor let sound when the two men was dragged before the Lieutenant of Barad-dûr and was made to kneel in sight of the men on the wall. Their faces were forced up so that it could be clearly seen that this was indeed Elessar and Imrahil, the Prince of Dol Amroth.

"Surrender," said the Lieutenant, "and their lives will be spared. Surrender, and thy life and the lives of thy men will be spared. Surrender and the lives of all that are left within the City will be spared. Surrender now and Gondor will be allowed to govern its own affairs as a tributary of Mordor."

And he laughed; for he knew that the Steward was already beaten.

And so it was that Faramir surrendered and the Lieutenant of Barad-dûr entered the last circle of the White City. He ordered that all men in Gondor should be disarmed and set up a guard of corsairs and easterlings to "keep order and enforce the laws." He must have known of Éomer's escape, but he made little of it and sent no men to pursue him.

Later it became known that the Enemy had sent many of his troops north to strengthen the attack on Lothlorien. He also withdrew the army that had attacked Mirkwood and sent them across the mountains to destroy Imladris. It fell shortly after Lothlorien for the Enemy, it seems, would secure the Elven Rings and their Bearers as soon as he could after they were revealed to him. The Grey Havens too was attacked and destroyed, though the elves there had fled before the Enemy could reach them. It happened quickly after the fall of Imladis and in this the winged Nazgûl played the main part, for they could move more quickly than any of the Enemy's other servants and when he regained his Ring, their power increased with his own. In that way he was able to stretch his hand far, and with the destruction of the Havens the surviving Elves were trapped.

These doings spread out the resources of the Enemy and he did not wish to spend more than needed on subduing Gondor. He also thought it a cruel joke to let the son of Denethor continue to rule on His sufferance and to force him to follow the dictations of Mordor, leaving him only little power to protect his people. What reasons he had to offer such mild terms other than to force the lord Faramir's surrender, would not be clear until later.

Even with the surrender of the Steward, the pursuit of Éomer and the invasion of Rohan had to be delayed. The Lieutenant of Barad-dûr thought that Éomer would withdraw to one of his own strongholds and that the Rohirrim could easily be trapped and overcome later. Time, he deemed, would only weaken Rohan, and he left it to the Dunlendings and roaming Orcs to harass and weaken the horselords while he secured his grip on Gondor.

And so the whole of Gondor was overrun by corsairs and easterling soldiers. All those who had fled the city of Minas Tirith before the war began were ordered back and willing or unwilling they returned to rebuild their lives. No songs were heard in the streets and no joy marked their return to broken homes.

In mockery the Lieutenant of Barad-dûr reinstalled the Council of Gondor so that they should crown their king.

When the demand first was made – delivered formally in writing by the Lieutenant of Barad-dûr after the Council had been rounded up and forced into session at sword-point – they did not believe it. A cruel joke they thought it, and they were right, but the jest was more deadly and cruel than they had first thought. And far more would depend on the outcome than even the Enemy had imagined.

The Council had little choice, however, than to bow to the demands.

At midsummer all was ready for the coronation and many witnessed the procession. It started at the gates and wound its way up to the circles of the City. Banners in black and red had been hung along the road but above the citadel the white flag of the Stewards flew alone, until the King had been crowned. Black and red guards lined the streets and among the crowd more soldiers were stationed to insure that the people would behave.

At the head of the procession a man from the South rode on a blood-bay. He carried the standard of Mordor and behind him the banners of Harad and Umbar. Corsairs followed on foot and huge Uruks after them. Then the Lieutenant of Barad-dûr came leading Haradric men on black horses.

The Lieutenant of Barad-dûr rode a stallion with no marks. It glistened in the sun and its thick mane was braided with red silk. Red gold sparkled on the leather-bands; on saddle and bride, reins and chest-band. With arched neck and high-lifted feet it went in the slow, ceremonial trot and on occasion it would toss its head. It so chomped and gnawed at the bit that white foam littered its chest and legs in specks and lumps. Its rider sat still, but for the left hand that held the reins.

He wore amour that shone in the sun and all black and red colours. By his side hung a sword and behind him walked a page that carried his shield; black with the Red Eye as the device.

Twenty knights followed the Lieutenant of Barad-dûr. They were dressed in red and their armour was of brass with ornaments of red gold. Their heads were bare and their black plaits were braided with gold. They carried long spears and bore the mark of the Black Serpent. Their teeth flashed white against their dark faces. Dark-eyed and tall they were, and their horses were quick and small.

Behind them the prisoner was brought.

Three lines of guards surrounded his cart; first great Uruks, then dark Southrons and at the inner ring Corsairs with their curved blades. Six oxen drew the cart and on it stood Elessar, silent and tall.

He stood alone, dressed in his battle-gear but stripped of sword and helmet. The colours of his clothes could barely be seen even in the light of day, so torn and tattered, so filled with stains they were. A grey cloak was cast about his shoulders, but it did not hide His stance, nor wholly obscure the chains that bound him to the cart. The Elessar hung around his neck and before him on the cart – just out of reach – they had put his sword on display.

On that cart alone could be seen the White Tree. Above Elessar's head his standard had been raised. Blowing torn and slashed, dirty with mud, still the White Tree and Seven Stars were clear. As the procession moved up the levels of the City all eyes were drawn to the cart, and the murmur of the people grew.

"The Elfstone."  
"What will he do?"  
"What can he?"  
"Oh, cruel! Cruel!"  
"Why have they brought him?"  
"What have they done to him?"  
"What will they do?"

But all the people knew was that he was but a hostage to ensure the Steward's obedience, and his display but a mockery to degrade both him and them.

At the Citadel the procession ended, and with it the public display. The crowning would be held inside with the Council and a few chosen guests to bear witness. The accounts given by the Enemy's men cannot be trusted, but lord Faramir's words have been preserved.

" _It was a sunny day. It was the first day the sun broke through the clouds since the second darkness had swallowed us but the light did not lift our hearts. A cruel mockery it seemed to me that the sun should shine on this day._

_I held the crown. I had not thought that I one day would. And I waited, waited while the procession moved thought the City. I could not hear what happened outside, so I waited. I waited, the guards around me all in black and red, each member of the Council guarded with drawn blades and in my sight my uncle – still in chains – was made to kneel; all to remind me of what I knew too well: I had no choice. I must obey._

_Though I knew what would happen, I still did not expect the sight._

_He bore the same clothes that he had borne at my surrender; only a cloak had been added. It hid some of his form, but the hood was thrown back and his head was bare._

_He bore himself proud._

_Despise the bruises on his face, despise the chains that kept him bound, despise the gag that silenced his tongue he held his head high and his eyes burned proud; more kingly than his captor he looked, were_  he  _ever so finely dressed._

_Then I knew; the Enemy could not win. Though beaten we would stand, even on bended knee and a day would once dawn again without mockery, and sun and stars and water and the green grass would still be. The king had come again, despite the mockery. And that I whispered as I put the crown upon his head, and though the darkness that followed, that will follow still, yea, though the darkness may remain until my death, I will still cling to the memory that day; to the memory of the crowning of my king."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The premises for the AU is the question: what would happen if Sam had not shown Gollum pity on Mount Doom?
> 
> My answer is at places quite dark, as I believe that the Quest would have failed and Sauron would have regained the Ring, but my main inspiration is this quote from a conversation between Pippin and Beregond in Minas Tirith:
> 
> "We may stand, if only on one leg, or at least be left still upon our knees.'
> 
> 'Rightly said!' cried Beregond, rising and striding to and fro. 'Nay, though all things must come utterly to an end in time, Gondor shall not perish yet. Not though the walls be taken by a reckless foe that will build a hill of carrion before them. There are still other fastnesses, and secret ways of escape into the mountains. Hope and memory shall live still in some hidden valley where the grass is green.'" RotK, Minas Tirith
> 
> ...
> 
> There are many people to thank for help with the writing of this story. Main among them are the writers-group on The Garden of Ithilien, who are my fist sounding-board, on the story and the chapters. Without them I would not have begun such an ambitious project as this story is. I must also mention The Lauderdale, who came upon my story after I had begun posting at ffnet, and her encouragement, especially by nominating it to the MEFAs, has been of great help.
> 
> Ainu Laure betaed some of the earlier chapters, and then JALU took over after I had posted (too many) chapters without a final beta. The following people have also helped with scenes, suggestions of improvement and with pointing out typos, And I am grateful for all the help they have given:  
> Darkwinter, TheForbiddenTruth, Marchwriter, Mirach, Number1PixarFan, Old Stoneface, SerenLyall, ShadowTheHedgehog, Wendy, and some of the members of the forum "Of Cabbages and Kings". WIseQueen has also been a great support.  
>  
> 
> Disclaimer: All characters and places are the property of the Tolkien estate. This is written purely for entertainment and at no monetary gain.


	3. The Faithfull

Ten years would pass before the people of Minas Tirith saw their king again. He was taken to the Black Land two days after the coronation and no trustworthy news of him was heard for many years. Rumours said that he defied the Enemy, but no one knew what conditions he was being kept in, save that he was being kept alive as a hostage to ensure the good behaviour of the Steward.

At first those rumours were of little interest outside of Gondor, and even the news of the coronation itself was slow to travel to the lands beyond the Mering Stream. These lands had enough sorrows of their own.

The winters became increasingly harder after the defeat of the Free Peoples. The snow crept further down the mountain slopes each passing year and even the plains and rolling hills of Rohan would be covered in white. It was rarely deep and seldom lay long on the ground, but it made the ground softer. The hooves of the horse-herds churned up more and more of the ground each winter, and it took longer for the grass to grow back each spring.

The ninth winter was worse than any they had known yet. The Faithful, the last of those left to still resist the Shadow, struggled to keep alive. Between the snow, the enemy patrols and the roaming bands of Orcs, food was hard to find and though they were too few, they still had too many mouths to feed.

...

Fastred lay sleepless. He was cold and the damp chill from the ground did not mend matters. Even the tree-roots gathered around him to prevent his sleep, or so it seemed to him; wherever he turned they would press into his spine, or ribs or some other, uncomfortable place. The sound of sleeping men around did not help. But in the end he must have slept, because he dreamed.

The dream held him through the night. Caught and helpless in its grasp he could not even move. No one noticed his plight until in the morning-twilight – in that grey hour before the dawn – he woke, the echo of a half-remembered scream still on his lips.

He blinked. The dream had not yet faded, and the darkness of his waking was too alike that of his dream. He could sense bodies scattered around him, and the shadows of trees. Then he heard the soft, familiar sounds of horses nearby. He stood up. Making his way across the clearing, he found them huddling together, and began to seek his mare.

She found him.

Her warmth soothed him, and she stood quietly until his breath evened out.

"What did you dream?"

He turned. Someone stood there, a grey shadow among the rest. He could not make out its face.

"Who is there?" he asked.

"Be calm. It is I, Lindir."

And he should have heard the elven lilt in his voice before, but the dream was still too vivid in his mind. "I should have known it would be one of the fair folk," he said. "How did _you_ know?"

"That you dreamed? I have learned more about mortals these past ten years," the Elf laughed. "And my ears are sharp; I heard you when you woke, Man of Rohan."

"Sharp eyes as well." Fastred said. "I could as well have been one of the Dúnedain."

Lindir laughed again. "True. Your woodcraft is better than most of your people's, and I have yet to learn the difference between two Men, but only one of the Rohirrim would check on his horse as the first thing he does upon waking from a dream."

"Our horses have always been our pride. Now it is all we have left."

Lindir nodded. It was still too dark for Fastred to make out his face; he was nothing but a shadow with a voice. "You love them," he said. "That is plain. And they, I think, love you in return after their fashion."

Fastred nodded, and he said no more. Lindir stayed. Waiting.

"Dawn will come soon," he said at length, when it was clear that Fastred would say no more. "And you have not yet told what I came to ask."

"You have yet to ask."

"The dream? You have not forgotten, but if you do not wish to tell me, say so, and I will leave."

"It was a dream, no more," Fastred said. "It has no meaning."

"You would not stand here if it was so."

Fastred swallowed. The Elf was right, curse him. Unlike all he had dreamt before, this had not faded upon his waking. He could see it still, just as vivid as if he still dreamt. The flat, empty field in which he had found himself. It stretched before him, endless, covered with snow. He struggled through it, sinking down to his knees at every step. His body was heavy and slow. Above the sky was grey, and underneath the snow he would, from time to time, step on _something_ that made his stumble.

He looked behind him once, and there a forest rose. Familiar, yet in his dream he could not name it. He could not turn to walk towards it, and so he continued.

In the dream he walked for a long time. He walked until the forest behind him had almost disappeared, and around him all was white. Then, suddenly, he saw in the middle of all the white a tree. It stood on its own, planted in the middle of the field. The Tree was dark against the snow. He could not see what kind of Tree it was.

He hurried towards it, his limbs lighter at the sight, still stumbling in the snow. For each step he took, the snow began to melt away, revealing the ground beneath. It was a battlefield. A great battle had been fought there, long ago, and what he thought had been rocks hidden by the snow to make him stumble, was the rotting corpses of all living things.

But in his dream he hurried past them, over them, as unable, now, to stop as he had been to turn back before. There, before him, the Tree grew, and the snow disappeared as if it had never been. Above the sky grew darker, and the centre of the darkness lay above the Tree.

In his dream he came to stand close to the Tree, and beside it he saw a white horse. Greater, even, than Shadowfax it seemed to him; red nostrils, arched neck and flowing mane. He went no closer to it. He could see the Tree clearly now; a White Tree, with Seven Stars above it. The Stars hung close, close enough, he thought, that he could touch them, yet he could not. It was strange, as if somehow not real.

He was not startled, for that is the manner of such dreams, to see a Man beside the Tree. His face was turned away; Fastred could only see the back of his head with its dark hair. He was looking at one of the corpses on the ground, so intent on the body that he did not look up or stir. His stare drew Fastred in, led his sight to the corpse.

It was no corpse.

"It moved. Broken, beaten, blinded, maimed; it moved. It crawled in the mud; one mangled had lifted to ward off more harm. Or beg help.

'I cannot help,' the Man said. He turned towards me. 'I am already dead.'

"And in his face I see the same decay that marked the corpses in the field. His eyes were gone, and half his face was stripped of skin, on one cheek down to the bone. Worms crawled there, falling from his eyes instead of tears. I stared, until the one lying on the ground opened his mouth and screamed light.

"It poured from his mouth, and when the light fell on the ground, grass began to grow. The pale green of spring-plants spread, shooting up between the bodies and the broken shafts of spears. Before long, the darkness struck back. It fell upon the body of the man, pressing down on him to quell the light, whirling around us.

"I could not move. The man beside me was silent. His hair whipped around him, hardly visible against the dark. It was the only sign that the rage of the darkness affected him. I felt noting of it, but I could not move.

"The horse bowed its head, and at its side now stood another Man. Gold glittered on his head. He stretched out his hand and caught the mangled hand of the man on the ground.

"In that moment I felt fear.

"I could not move, I could not speak, I could not close my eyes against the sight no matter how I fought.

"The light began to grow. Darkness fought, crushing in, and the Man – young he was, and fair – stepped between the darkness and the light. He lifted up the man on the ground, and, as he did, the man grew hale and strong. The youth grew weak.

"I could not move, I could not speak. I tried to scream to him to let him go; not give his life to heal the broken one. It seemed to me that nothing could be worse, not even the quenching of the light and the snow's return, than that this youth should die.

"He did not, could not, heed my words. Unspoken, they could not pass my lips, and so I stood, and looked, until the light had grown so bright it hid them both from my sight. The darkness fell away to hover in the east, waiting for a chance to strike.

"When I could see again, the wounded man was gone and the youth lay on the ground. Blind and broken, mangled, maimed. In his hand he held a green stone, beautiful and rare. He held it up as far as he could reach, and the horse took it and bore it away. Running over ever-greening fields towards the distant forest, and I stood there, watching, and I could not move.

"The dark returned.

"It covered the youth, no longer young, where he lay on the ground. His head no longer golden, but matted dirty-blond like withered straw. He moved one last time before the darkness took him and stilled all movement. I could see his face. It was the same dead face as my dead companion.

"I turned to him and asked him: 'Why?'

"He said: 'You are alive.'

And then my dream began anew."

He did not know when he had begun to speak his memory out loud. He said no more, but stood, unmoving, until dawn slipped colours back into the world.

Lindir stirred.

"I do not know the meaning of your dream," he said. "Though I have learned enough of mortals to differ between apples and pears, dreams have never been my study; perhaps someone of your own people have the gift to tell its meaning. I will not attempt it. But I will tell you this: I sense both great hope and great peril in your dream."

He stood beside the Man, watching the grey darkness giving way to coloured light. Neither spoke, but the birds – what few there were left after the winter cold – began to sing. Their song grew with the light and filled the air around them, drowning the sounds of horses and of sleeping men.

"The sun comes," Lindir said, and his voice was clear amid the birdsong. "Even hiding she is still there." And then he laughed, and mingling his song with the birds' he left, leaving Fastred with the horses.

He stood there. When the birdsong faded to the familiar twitter, he knew the sun had risen behind the grey clouds. A light rain began to fall, hardly heavier than a mist. The camp stirred and woke, and with a sigh he dismissed his mare and joined the waking men.

It was the beginning of spring. Supplies had become so low that Éomer king had decided to leave the relative shelter of Fangorn forest where they hid, and brave the mountain-paths to cross the White Mountains into Gondor. Taking with him ten mounted men and five pack-horses, he hoped to pass unnoticed over the empty plains of the Eastemnet to the Eastfold, cross the mountains over into Lamedon and come to the southern fiefs of Gondor. There was a pass to the east of the Folde where horses could travel, albeit with some difficulty if the snows were still deep. The path lay partly hidden, and it seemed that the enemy had not yet discovered it. The king would take that road, as he knew the land well.

Elfhelm, his Marshal, had not been happy with the king's plans, and had asked him to take more men with him, or to send a smaller group alone, but in the end he had to bow to the will of the King.

Fewer men, Éomer had argued, would not be able to bring enough food back with them to stave off hunger, and there would not be worth the risk unless they had a chance of taking back enough provisions.

"Then take more," Elfhelm had said, but Éomer reasoned that bringing more men would make it difficult to move unseen. They would be spotted, and no matter how many, they would not be able to fight their way through, or even escape, if the Master of Isengard, as the Lieutenant of Barad-dûr now called himself, sent his forces against them. Húrin, a captain of the Northern Dúnedain, had made that point clear. All Elfhelm had left to fight was that Éomer king should not go himself, but rather let some other lead the men.

"No," Éomer said. "I know the land. I grew up by the scattered forests and mountainsides of the Eastfold, and I would hear what news there are from the land of Stone."

"Others know the land and the mountain-pass as well or better," Elfhelm said, "and they can bring tidings with the food; it is needless to risk yourself, Éomer king, just to learn of the newest evil a week early."

"My heart tells me that this year I must."

It was the woman whom they kept safe above all others that, surprisingly, supported the king's heart.

"Foresight is not usually given to the people of the Mark," she said, "but my heart warns the same."

And with that the decision had been made.

They had left from Wellinghall at midmorning at the middle of March. By then the supplies were so low that Éomer would not wait further, though the far-off mountaintops were still white. Most of the Ents were wandering along the Huorns' Guard or keeping to themselves deep among the trees, but Bregalad was willing to go with them. He would see them safely past the Guard, for the trees did not always let any being on two legs pass, unless the Ents where there to watch them. At Elfhelm's insistence, Éomer also brought with him ten men on foot to escort them to the forest's edge. Among them were three of the Elves who had joined them in the second year, escaping south after the fall of Rivendell. The rest were rangers, or such of the Eorlingas who had learned their woodcraft. With Éomer five Riders went, led by Fastred his chief scout, two men of Gondor and three of the Northern Dúnedain, of which the captain Húrin was one.

They did not travel far the first day. The forest was bare, still in its winter-sleep. In many places the earth was wet and muddy, and in the deep shadows of the trees, patches of snow still lingered. They walked their horses on the narrow paths, and between the undergrowth and the narrow growth of trees. In places they would lead their horses because the branches grew too low to let them ride. Still Bregalad would somehow find his way unhindered, as if the trees moved to let him pass. They camped before the light dimmed, within the unmarked border that the Huorns had set.

They set no guards, safe within the Huorn's Guard, and lightly hobbled their horses to let them search grass. One by one, the Men, and then the Elves, stilled and slept.

All but Fastred whose dream disturbed his sleep. And Lindir who saw him.

They left early. The light was dim but though the drizzle did not stop, it was too light to bother them much beneath the canopy of the forest. They could hear the tatter of the small drops around them. Most of the men turned up their hoods, for the droplets that beaded the bare branches ran together into bigger drops that dripped down the necks of the men an hour's walk, Bregalad would go no further; they had reached the last of the Huorn-guards.

"Fare well and safe," he said. "You will be more easily seen once you leave the forest and with the spring on its way and the snow gone, more eyes will be watching. On the plains, eyes see far."

"Yet we have little choice but to cross them," Éomer king replied. "Still, though I do not like getting wet, this rain may help to hide us and dim our enemies' eyes."

"And the Orcs' fear," Fastred muttered under his breath. None answered him; they knew all too well that he was right.

They did not travel any quicker after Bregalad stayed behind, for Orcs patrolled the outskirts of the forest and they would not risk a fight if it could be helped. Their escort scouted ahead and they were often forced to wait until the paths were clear.

At midday they rested and ate a little. Despite the rain Éomer had chosen a small glade where all the snow was gone and yesteryear's grass still covered the ground. Húrin protested that it was too open and uncovered to hide them from any scouting Orcs, but the shrivelled, yellow grass, poor as it was, still offered a better chance for the horses to feed than the naked ground beneath the trees, and there were bushes and young fir-trees at the edge. Éomer overruled him, and ordered that the reins be fastened and the horses left to graze for as long as they could. The horses were thin after the long winter; even with their long, ragged winter-coats their bones could be seen.

To give the horses more time to feed, Éomer stayed in the clearing while the rangers scouted ahead to find which paths were free to travel. Húrin went with them, taking with him the other Dúnedain in Éomer's company. He would know what waited ahead, he said, and had no patience to wait with the king and his Riders. Éomer said nothing, but nodded his consent. They could be no more than a few hours' ride from the eavesof Entwood and so far they had seen no sign of Orcs.

Another hour passed. Fastred had set a guard, but most of the men rested wherever they could find shelter. Éomer checked Firefoot. The stallion had begun to show his years, but Éomer had insisted on riding him on this trip. He was still fit enough to keep up with the younger horses, though he was somewhat stiffer and took longer to warm up. But Éomer would not ride another unless it was one of the _mearas_ , and they would be too easily recognized – even outside the Mark. The long winter and scanty feeding had left most of their horses too thin, and the long winter-pelt left them looking even more unkempt and scruffy; they would not look much different from the poor workhorses of southern fiefs. At least not to the people of Gondor. Soon the horses would begin to shed their wither-coats, and then they would look even worse. But the _mearas_ could not be mistaken, so Éomer would not risk riding one of them. Besides, he liked Firefoot. Sometimes he doubted he would ever have the same bond with a horse, even with one of the _meara_ , as he did with him.

Éomer stroked Firefoot's neck and let his hand travel over his shoulders and legs down to his feet, feeling for heat or swelling. When he found nothing, he then lifted each of the hooves and checked for any signs of soreness in the frog or if any sharp stone had got stuck. He put down the last hoof when Húrin returned with his men.

"There is a small group of Orcs blocking our path to the northeast. If we go straight east we may be able to avoid them, but it looks like they are moving south and they will most likely cross our path if we go that way. We will have to detour south."

"Can we not simply wait for them to pass?" Éomer asked. "We can afford a few hour's wait, it will give the horses more time to feed and rest; there will be little enough of both until we have crossed the east plains."

"Lindir spotted more patrols to the north, all moving east along the Huorn border," Húrin answered. "He suspects that they have set up a large camp near the mountains, or even made tunnels in the mountains near the Limlight to send out patrols from there. If we wait, the risk is high that another group will draw too near before the first is safely away."

"How many are there? Can we not attack and drive them off," Bragloth, one of the Gondorian rangers, asked. "It irks me to flee from such filth."

"They are twenty men strong, but …"

"Then they are no match," Bragloth cut him off. "Our numbers are even, they are _Orcs_ and eleven of us are mounted. We can easily break past them."

"No." Húrin's face was stern. "That patrol may be small, but there are others close by that will come swiftly to their aid, if not for concern for their fellows, then for the reward they will receive for any of us they catch or kill. We will not get through without loss of lives, which we can ill afford, or for all of us to avoid capture, which will be worse."

"Are the stories I have heard untrue, then?" Bragloth asked. "It is said that the invasion of Rohan would have been quicker if not for the terror of the Horselords. Three Riders could alone hold off entire companies of Men, or so I have been told, freezing them in place and leaving no more than half standing."

"That was on the plains, where we could move quickly," Éomer said with some impatience. "Among these trees the horses will give us little advantage. Only the most experienced Riders could make some use of them here; there is no room to manoeuvre or move quickly. We might be able to break though their ranks and escape by speed if the path is broad enough, but that would leave those on foot alone when the other patrols come. And if we have to ride in single file, then the risk is high that they would take down more than one of us. I have not even begun to consider the packhorses, which it will be harder still to get through. No, I will not risk that if there is another way. But if we cannot wait or safely break through, what do you suggest, Húrin?"

"Go south, lord, there seem to be fewer patrols there. If we can outdistance the Orcs, we can leave the forest further south and keep closer to the Entwash. That way we may reach the road quicker and save us time, or we can ride east into the Wold before we turn south again."

"The plains between the Entwash and the Gap is too heavily watched," said Fastred. "That is why we chose the northern road."

Éomer raised his hand; he had heard enough. "We go south for now," he said. "Then east into the Wold. I will not risk the Entwash; we have time."

Though the king claimed they had time enough, Fastred did not waste it; he quickly had the men break camp and gather the horses. Soon they were leading the horses away from the clearing. Two of the Rangers from their escort brought up the rear; covering their traces as well as could be done. The path to the south was easy to follow at first, but soon Húrin led them down a narrow track that could have been made by animals. It led to a small brook swollen by the melt-water. Even so, the water did not reach above the height of their boots; something they were thankful for, as they had to dismount and lead the horses across. Húrin followed it for a while, pressing through the thick undergrowth that grew around the stream, ducking under the branches that hung low over the water and wading in the cold melt-water. The horses grew restless and tense, and the Riders leading the Rangers' horses with their own cursed the _ganghere_  who could not teach their horses to behave. The packhorses gave little trouble; they were steady beasts, used to following in line.

Finally they left the brook. Húrin found a path that was wide enough for riding, but he and the Rangers preferred to go on foot a while longer. Éomer, who had never understood the point of walking when he could ride, mounted with his men. Fastred rode behind him with Húrin's horse in tow.

Nothing much happened for at time and it looked as though they would avoid further patrols. Éomer began to hope that they would be able to leave the forest unseen when Húrin returned. The two rangers and one of the Elves were with him.

"More Orcs have been spotted, Lord Éomer," he said.

"How many and how close?" Éomer asked.

The two rangers went to take their horses while Húrin and Lindir reported to Éomer. The orcs were closing in on them from three directions and unless they turned back towards the Huorn border, they would be caught between at least three patrols, facing some hundred orcs or more.

"Without the Ents, the Huorns will attack us as quickly as they would the orcs," Éomer said. He shook his head. Going west would probably do them little good unless they could get word to Quickbeam before they arrived themselves.

"I sent my companions to find the scouts and gather them here," said Lindir. "We might be able to open a way for you if luck and skill are on our side."

"How?" Fastred asked. "There are too many of the enemy for an easy victory, even with the horses, and breaking though their ranks would be difficult in this terrain. Might it not be better to go south and west, and hope to find an opening between patrols? We might at least, if our luck is bad, reach the Entwash and gain entry there. Some of the Ents always watch that path."

"We might," Húrin said. "But I would not counsel it."

"Why not?" Éomer asked.

"Too much time would be lost. Though we are not desperate, our errand is urgent," he said. "And my heart is troubled. It tells me that time is more pressing than we think; the same urging that made you come with us, Éomer king, urges me now to waste no time on going back to the Huorns' Guard."

Éomer nodded. "Then we shall not, unless there is no other way." He turned to Lindir. "What plan did you have?"

"We have to hear what the other scouts have seen, but I think we will be able to draw them off and lead them away from you. If skill and luck hold, you might be able to pass between the patrols unnoticed. The forest is thinner near the edges and you would be able to use the speed of the horses to escape. Once out in the open, the orcs will not be able to overtake you even if you are spotted."

He used one of his arrows to outline a map on the ground. Éomer and Fastred dismounted and Lindir marked out their own position and those of the Orcs. "We spotted the orcs here. We do not know exactly where the patrol we sought to evade is, but I would guess that they are at least half an hour behind us. That gives us some time to act. If some of us lead the new patrols south, you could slip between them, as we first planned."

"It sounds easy enough," Fastred said, "but I do not like it. The patrols are usually not this thick; why are three large patrols so close to each other?"

"It looks as though both their orders and patrols have been changed," Húrin said. "Earlier they had their main strength in the south, and the northern parts of the forest was not so heavily patrolled. Now it seems that they have gathered a large force somewhere in the north – my guess would be in the mountains near the forest's edge – and we are near the place where the northern and southern patrols meet. They will probably turn back when they meet; they would have different parts of the forest to guard."

"Do you think they turn back if they do not meet up?" Éomer asked.

"I do not know," was all Húrin answered to that. "But we will have to hear what the other scouts say before we can decide on anything."

They did not have to wait long before three more men returned, all from different directions. The rest had stayed out to keep an eye on the patrols. One of the scouts, a young Rider who had quickly learned the woodcraft of the Rangers, could tell that there was an orc-camp to the east, and from what they had been able to hear, spying from the trees, the other patrols were expected to meet up with them, or send a few scouts to report. They had also learned that the Master of Isengard had strengthened the patrols, confirming Húrin's guess. Additional groups of Orcs patrolled the edges of the forest between the Entwash and the Limlight. These patrols were smaller and further apart, posing little threat to ten mounted Men, but still Éomer would rather avoid them if possible.

"Are any of the patrols close to the camp?" the king asked.

"The one to the south," Lindir answered. "They might be close enough to alert the camp if they see us."

"And the northern?"

"Further behind than feared," the answer came. "They have slowed their pace and when I left they had stopped to rest, or quarrel." The Ranger reporting grimaced. "There seems to be no love lost between the patrols, and the Orcs based in the north do not like to report to those from the south. The patrol is about an hour's walk from us and did not seem eager to hurry their meeting."

Éomer turned to Lindir. "Then your plan might work."

"Of course it will," the Elf answered. Éomer could hear the affront in his voice. "We lure the southern patrol back south, hopefully drawing the attention of the Orcs in the camp as well. When we have led them far enough from here, we will slip from them and find a way past the Huorns' Guard. You head to where the Limlight leaves the forest, as we first planned. If you can not avoid the patrols by the forest-edge, you can cross the river while still in the forest and leave Fangorn further to the north."

"We will need no more than four," Lindir continued. "Myself, Glirthor and the two rangers with him will be enough to divert them. Take the rest with you; they can divert the northern patrol if necessary and rejoin Bregalad later as planned. Together we should be able to open a path for you."

It was the best plan they had.

"Be safe," the king urged them in farewell. "We can ill afford to lose even one life"

"We may lose more than one life unless you can bring back food," Lindir replied. "Hunting will only sustain us for a short time; game is sparse in Fangorn. Against hunger, some risks must be taken. Fare well, and may the Valar give your horses speed."

Tauron, a seasoned Ranger, was sent back north. With him, the young Rider went, leaving Lindir to return to the other patrol alone. They would all move quicker through the dense forest than the horses would. Húrin went with them – he still saw it as his part to know what lay ahead.

Éomer let Fastred find them a path, taking a course that would take them straight back to the orcs.

For about half an hour nothing happened. The paths were no worse or, nor better, than before, the trees stood no further apart and raindrops still found their way past the barren crown above them. Then Húrin returned.

"The patrol has begun to move again sooner than we thought," he said. "I ordered Tauron to distract them and lure them away, leaving the paths open to us. We can only hope they will be able to draw all of the orcs with them, and still escape without loss. If they are successful, we will not hear from them until we return. We are on our own."

Éomer nodded. "Take the lead for now," he said. "I take it you know the road ahead?"

"Somewhat," Húrin answered. "But we should have some scouts out there, now that we have lost our escort."

"Fastred can go," Éomer said. "I would have you lead us for the time being."

"Then let Bádon go with him."

Éomer nodded. "Two eyes pair of eyes are better than one, and two set of legs too should you need to report back. Get some feeling for the road ahead; the more that knows what lies ahead, the better."

Fastred bowed and left, and Bádon followed him. Two Riders took their horses in tow.

For a while they travelled in silence. Húrin led them, but he did not speak much; his eyes and ears were on the road ahead. Éomer let him be.

They crossed the brook once, heading back in almost the same direction that they had come. Soon afterwards, they reached a place where several paths met, and it widened enough for two horses to walk abreast. The weather became a little better. The rain had stopped, but the sky was still grey, and underneath the trees it was almost dusk. Éomer wished for more light, but if wishes were horses... they would have had even less grain left.

The hooves of the horses were muted and made little noise on the soft forest-path. They had not been able to shoe them before they left; there was no iron left. While it helped keep their passage quiet, Éomer hoped that they would not be forced to travel on hard and stony ground. After the snow and the wet ground, the horses had not had time to get used to harder ground. If they got too sore, they would be delayed.

They had not ridden more than a mile or so when Húrin held up his hand and stopped. All of them halted. Éomer came up level with Húrin.

"What is it?"

"Sh!" Húrin hissed. "Listen."

Firefoot snorted once before he fell silent, and then the king heard it; the distant din of weapons, shouts and battle cries. An Orc-horn sounded once, twice. The signal was repeated two more times. The fourth signal was cut short, but whoever had silenced the horn-blower was too late; an answering call could be heard behind them, then another, weaker one, ahead.

"That first answer was near."

"Too near." Húrin spoke quietly. He leapt from the horse and bowed close to the ground, trying to hear what news it could bring. Shortly he stood again, shaking his head. "I cannot say for sure, there are too many walking feet around, and the horses move too much, but I think a small group of Orcs is coming up from the south. Up ahead the path forks again, and I guess they are headed there. If they take the western path from there, they will be able to move quickly and swiftly join the fight. They will pass this way, and they will be here soon. We must either fight them or hide."

"How many?" the king asked.

"I cannot say," Húrin answered. "Not many enough to threaten us, I think, but more might be drawn here if we fight them."

"And we will be revealed," Éomer added. "Can we outride them?"

"The answering horn in the north tells me that more Orcs are coming that way. They will aim for the same juncture. It would be safer to hide here, where there is some cover, and wait for them to pass."

Éomer nodded. He turned and gestured to the men: _Hide!_

Each man turned his horse and moved off the path. They spread out on each side of the road; if they were discovered, they would be able to surround the Orcs and hopefully take them out before they could alert more patrols.

Húrin wasted no time mounting; he bade the king follow him and quickly led his gelding off the path. Éomer followed.

The undergrowth would have been thicker if the spring had not arrived so late. It was both a blessing and a curse. It made for easier riding, but it also made it harder to hide. It was difficult enough to hide one horse at the best of times; fifteen was near hopeless.

Húrin was cursing under his breath, the words themselves drowned in the noise made by two horses forcing their way past twigs and small branches. Éomer tried to follow the same gaps as Húrin's gelding had made, but the bare branches tore at his clothes all the same. Firefoot did not seem to mind much; he had become less apprehensive of forests after living there so long, but Éomer knew, and silently agreed, that open plains were preferable. There you could see the enemy coming, and have time to attack or run away. Éomer had never been one to run willingly. Or hide. But these days he seemed to be doing a lot of both.

One of the thicker twigs struck him in the face. He ducked and narrowly escaped a branch that would have knocked him off the horse. Half hanging over Firefoot's neck, he was not quick enough to see the narrow gap between the tree-trunks ahead and was nearly unhorsed again when the stallion failed to consider that his knee needed to fit between the tree and himself.

Éomer swore.

"This way, and be silent!" Húrin hissed, the sound not quite a whisper. He had turned at a sharp angle, using a row of young fir-trees to mask their position. Éomer glared but said nothing. He joined Húrin and dismounted. His knee throbbed from the impact, but he ignored it; it would soon pass.

Behind them, the trees seemed to move closer, masking the bigger gaps that their passage had made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ganghere: (OE) Foot soldiers. I have followed Tolkien in using Old English as the language of the Mark.


	4. News

Fastred cursed.

Cold, damp moisture from the forest floor seeped into his clothes. They had– of course they had– picked a place where the thawed upper layer of the ground was thin, and the cold from the ice underneath made the water that kept on soaking his legs– his whole body!– freezing. And he could not move away or find a dryer place.

He knew, of course, that there were no dry places, would be no dry places, until the frozen ground had melted all the way down to whatever lay beneath, but even so... damn those orcs!

He cursed again, silently.

Bádon lay a little away from him. Silent. Waiting. If wet clothes bothered him, he did not show it. The ranger was listening to the orcs.

Fastred turned his attention back to the path. The orc-patrol was large, half a hundred strong– too many to take on. Luckily, all orcs are noisy, especially in a hurry, and this patrol was no exception. They had heard them in time to hide. Now they were pinned down until the orcs passed.

Fastred cursed again.

The only reason he had agreed to take the ranger with him, apart from his king telling him to, was so that one of them would be able to report back if there was something blocking their path. Fifty orcs was something and what happens but that they both get trapped together: two stupid, blundering, fresh-faced boys that were deaf and blind to the world around them. He could only hope that the king would hear the noise and have time to hide. With the racket they made, the chances were good.

The leader, a big, bow-legged orc, was running alongside the patrol, keeping them in line. He stopped right in front of their hiding place, and Fastred wanted to curse one more time. The naked twigs of bushes and withered undergrowth that hid them were not thick enough to cover them half as well as he would have liked. Bádon had covered himself with broken sticks and rotting leaves, but even he would be seen if the orcs had been looking. They had trusted to luck and the orcs' haste to keep them concealed from the patrol, but now their luck was stretched more than Fastred liked. The big orc needed only to turn a little of his attention to his surroundings, and they would be seen.

"Run, you maggots!" the orc shouted over the din. "Run! You heard the horns. Do you want those cursed southerners to get there first and take our prize?" He added his whip to his words to encourage them. It cracked above their heads once and the troop increased their pace. Satisfied, the leader turned to run beside them when one of the orcs stumbled on a root and fell. The orc behind him jumped over him, but the next had not seen what happened and fell over him. As more followed, the column came to a stop.

"Halt!" the leader cried. Cursing orcs tried to get out of the pile and on their feet before their leader reached them. Those that had kept to their feet stood back.

"Get up!" the big orc shouted. "What d' you think this is? Maggots and scum! Who's the filth that did this? Get on your feet!" He dragged the orcs off and threw them aside to find the guilty one.

It was slightly bigger than the rest, but still smaller than the leader. It was wheezing and clutching at its leg, but when the bigger orc grabbed it by its throat, it quickly forgot all other troubles.

"Snaga," the orc hissed. "You're a clumsy fool. Some of those filthy Whiteskins have poked their noses outside the Treeguard. Lugbúrz wants them– and Isengard, too. If we catch them, we will be in the Stone City next month, feasting. Now those damned south-swine might beat us to it."

If the other would make any attempt to plead for its life, it had no time. The orc-leader stabbed it in the gut and twisted the knife. Then he wrenched the knife out and threw the body into the bushes. It landed right in front of Fastred, blocking his sight. Fastred held his breath; the orc was not dead, but even dying it could still reveal them. If it saw. If it wanted.

But their luck held again; it had fallen on its back and its eyes were closed in pain.

"Get the lines in order," chief orc called. "If I miss this chance, more will pay."

The orcs wasted no time. Fastred and Bádon lay still until they had passed out of sight and hearing.

"They are far enough away now," Bádon said once the forest was silent again. The only sound to be heard was the cracking twigs underneath them and the wet splats of yesteryear's rotting leaves when they moved. And the wheezing breathes of the dying orc. The ranger rose. "Let us see if this has any breath left to speak with."

Fastred rose halfway. Bádon was kneeling beside the orc searching it for weapons. He had removed its sword and shield and was in the process of taking the dagger strapped to its arm. The orc opened its eyes and glared at the ranger, but it made no sound except the wheezing breaths. It was unlikely that it would be able to speak.

Bádon continued to dig through its clothes for any hidden weapons. He was not gentle in his search, and the orc gave a high squeal when he pulled at the cloth near the wound. "So there is still sound in you," the ranger grumbled. "Let's hear if you have anything of interest to tell. How many patrols are there between us and the edge of the forest?"

The orc glared at Bádon some more. "Why should I tell you, tark," it wheezed.

"You are dying and at our mercy," Fastred pointed out. "It would be in your best interest to humour us."

"As if you'd do me any good now." Its words came in gasps. "You couldn't save me if you'd wanted."

"No," said Bádon. "But we can ease your death. Bleeding out is a slow death, and that breath sounds painful to me. We can make it quick and painless." His face was hard. "Or we can make it worse." To make his point clear, he gripped the leg it had clutched at before. The orc squealed in pain, a high-pitched, wailing sound. Fastred swallowed; if any other patrols were near, they would probably hear it. They did not have much time.

Bádon did not seem hurried, though. He let go of the leg and hissed at the orc, "That felt broken. I once had a broken bone; do you want to know how it feels when someone has to open it up and dig for splinters?"

"You wouldn't…" But the orc did not sound like it believed its own words.

"No, we would not," Bádon said. "But we will leave you to bleed on your own."

"And you do not have much time," Fastred added. "Your wail just now has probably alerted one of your patrols and we do not intend to wait for it. And they would." He rose and looked around. "We have wasted enough time here, Bádon," he said. "Take whatever it has that can be of use, and then we will leave."

Bádon nodded and began to search it again.

"Wait!" the orc said. The gasps become more laboured and it struggled to speak. "I've… heard… City of… tark… king… plans…" It gasped and wheezed, but the words were garbled.

"What?" Fastred had knelt down beside it and now he grabbed the orc's collar. "What have you heard? What plans for the king?" But they could not make out anymore words.

"The lung is punctured," Bádon said. "It will not be able to say anything more." He shook his head. "I found this on him, but I do not know to whom it belonged." He held a broche shaped like a star.

"And this dagger was made in the Mark," Fastred said. "But we have not lost anyone since the snow fell. Either it has carried them for a long while, or someone from another settlement has fallen prey to the patrol." He sighed. The orc was still breathing. "Kill it," he said. "We should report back to the king."

Bádon nodded. "Take it," he said, giving Fastred the star. "I will find a better hiding spot and stay. If more patrols come, we should know of it."

Fastred took the star. A short nod and then he turned. Bádon would take care of the orc, and Éomer king should know what they had learned, little though it may be.

He had to hide from yet another group of orcs on the way back. It was smaller, coming up from the south, and he was relieved; if this group was heeding the same call as the first, then the king and his men had not been seen. He stayed off the path after that, but kept it in his sight.

...

Éomer had kept hidden until the orcs had passed, too intent on running to heed anything around them. The patrols were too thick for his liking and for once he saw the point in travelling without horses. Húrin's gelding stood pressed up against Firefoot who graciously allowed it. The stallion had mellowed a little with age, and had anyway long ago learned to behave when Éomer was around. Húrin had left his horse with him, finding a spot closer to the path so he could see if he could learn any news by listening.

When Húrin stood up and signalled the all clear, Éomer made his way to him. The horses followed, Firefoot herding the gelding, confirming his rank.

"It is a gelding, not a mare, you fool," Éomer hissed, but the horse did not heed him. He left them to find their own way down to the path and reached Húrin in time to see him send the third ranger running ahead.

"If Fastred and Bádon met any trouble, we should have another scout out there," he said. "They should have been able to avoid any patrol making as much noise as this one, but it is better to be safe."

Éomer nodded. "You'd better take your horse before it confuses Firefoot any further. I think he has mistaken him for a mare."

"It is not Bereth's fault that your horse is growing old and confused," Húrin answered.

"With that name, confusion is easy," was Éomer's retort. "And if he had pressed any closer to Firefoot, we would only have needed one saddle."

"I am not the one that needs a saddle between my legs to be happy," Húrin said.

Éomer had already swung himself into the saddle, and was about to answer that he was welcome to carry the skins and pelts down south by himself, and the grain on the way back, when they heard a loud, piercing wail. It came from somewhere up ahead.

"Fastred and Bádon might have found trouble after all." Éomer's voice was grave.

"It sounded more like an orc than a Man," said Húrin. "But I think they have found something. We should hurry."

Éomer gave a sharp command, and soon all had mounted. They set off at a short trot; they did not want to overtake the patrol they just had avoided, for it would slow them down to have to fight their way through. They had news before that happened, though.

Fastred met them and gave a short report of what he and Bádon had seen. "I worry, Éomer king," he said, "about the words we were able to get out of the orc. Some plot is laid against you, and it was made in Mundburg. Perhaps you should turn back, and let us bring whatever tidings that may wait for us in Calembel."

"Faramir would not lay plans against me," said Éomer. "I will not believe it."

"He most certainly will not!" Bergil was close enough to hear the king's words. He would not hear the Steward slandered. "Faramir would never turn against us."

"Peace, son of Beregond," said Húrin. "Éomer king said no such thing. But we have heard no tidings from the City since before the winter, and Faramir is hard pressed. He has been a puppet for the Enemy for ten years, who knows what power he has to stop anything? He might even have been removed. But did the orc really say that plans were made against Éomer in Minas Tirith?" He turned back to Fastred.

"Its words were hard to understand, but I can think of no other way to read them. It said: City of tarks, king and plan. What other city could it mean? And what king?"

"Even if plans are made against me, it is hardly news that the Enemy wants me," said Éomer. "And if they plan a trap in Minas Tirith, they will have to bait it better than with half-understandable words from a dying orc. I have no business in Minas Tirith and can think of no reason for me to go there. I should be safe enough, safer than turning back alone with all the orcs swarming between us and the Huorns' Guard. No," he stopped Fastred before he could speak. "I will not take anyone with me back. All are needed."

They spoke no more of it– there was little point unless they happen upon tidings that shed more light on the matter; neither did any of them know whom the star or knife could have belonged to.

Little more of interest happened that day. They avoided the patrols and by dusk they had reached the eves of Fangorn where the river Limlight ran on the northern border of the Mark. Éomer followed the river, riding as quick as the footing and the fading light allowed, until he felt certain that they had avoided the eyes of the orcs, or at least not been followed. They camped near the river for the remainder of the night and continued south into the Wold and the Eastern Plains at daybreak.

The king had hoped to cross the Wold quickly and travel some way into the East Emnet that day, but the rain started up again, harder than before, and the ground became a sea of mud that the horses sank into to the knees and hocks. It became impossible to move above a walk unless they would want to wear out their horses. All that day they struggled in the mud, and when they finally reached the South Undeep and firmer ground, neither man nor beast could go on without a rest. Éomer ordered that some of the grain they had with them should be given to the horses. They needed it more than the men.

Everything was wet and they could light no fires to dry. Even if they had dared light any fires, they had no wood to burn. Only the soaked, dripping grass of yesteryear. And in the open landscape a fire would be seen far off, even by those without Elven eyes. Half-wild herds of horses roamed there most of the year. In the years after the war, the number of horses running wild had increased. The Master of Isengard had set a tribute of horses to be paid, and had ordered that great farms be made for breeding so that the numbers should be made. But the people of the Mark turned their horses loose rather than give them to the Enemy, and each year large numbers of horses would break out and get lost and few horses could be obtained to replace them. The horses found their way to the grassy plains and the people did little to recapture them.

The Enemy did not let this way of resisting the tribute to go unpunished. After the slaughter of several villages, the Eorlingas were forced to choose between their lives and their horses. Their love for their horses were great enough that they would have given their lives had not Éomer sent messages to all settlements that the price be paid. He could not see his people slaughtered. The Master of Isengard let the messengers pass unhindered once he learned of them; they served his purpose.

Since then the Master of Isengard allowed a number of herdsmen to watch the herds, as long as enough horses were captured to meet the tribute. He allowed no others to travel without permission, but because small groups of men were not unheard of on the East plains the Faithful were able to travel there in relative safety.

This year the plains were empty because of the late snowmelt. In winter the horseherders drove the herds north across the Limlight to find food and shelter near the abandoned woods of Lothlórien, and they had yet to return south. A light green had begun to spread across the plains, but the grass had not had much time to grow. Even unshod hooves would damage the ground, soft as is was. The track left by Éomer's company could be followed by a blind orc. They had to trust to their luck.

Their luck held. They did not see anyone the next day. The East Emnet was empty, even the skies above. No birds flew over it and they saw no animals on the plains; they and their horses were the only things moving. If they were spotted, none pursued them. Both Húrin and Fastred were suspicious and Éomer shared their suspicion. He wished, however, to use the opportunity to move more quickly. The rain and the orc-patrols had delayed their journey a whole day and they did not know what other hiders they would meet. They therefore set a quick pace and rode as straight south as they could.

They crossed the Entwash by midday the next day, but after that their luck ran out. A large number of Easterlings were guarding the Great West Road. Húrin had taken with him all the rangers to scout ahead and could report that the Easterlings were dressed for war but had only people on foot.

"They have kept a road guard for many years," Húrin said, "but it looks as though they have strengthened it. Bádon and Echil followed the Road east and west. To the west the guard is heavy, but not to the east. We might find a place to cross unseen that way."

"Yes," said Éomer. "I wonder, though, why they guard this part so heavily. There are no settlements near or any other reason to block the road here."

"We have crossed here many times before; perhaps they have grown suspicious?" Fastred said.

"Or we may just have run out of luck. Were you able to hear anything that might help us?" Éomer asked. None of them had, but it was decided that they should turn east and try their luck there.

To their surprise they found that the only place they could cross the Road unseen was near the border of Gondor, just before Hailfirien wood. The detour cost them more than a day, and in the mountain pass rain and the last lingering snow delayed them further.

It was therefore not until the end of March that Éomer reached the town of Calembel with his men. The small town was deemed to be of little importance by the Corsairs and Easterlings, and would only occasionally be inspected and taxed by them. The Orcs, too, found richer pickings elsewhere and it had therefore become a refuge of a sort for the Faithful and the safest place for Éomer to exchange news.

Even so Éomer king always approached it with caution. Half a day's march from the town there was a hidden cave that could house half an éored at need. In that cave Éomer struck camp. Scouts were sent to the town to see if it was safe to continue.

They returned swiftly.

"What news?" Éomer would know.

"We must wait," Fastred replied. "Corsairs search the village, three score strong. We saw them well before we reached Calembel and turned back before we were seen. The son of Beregond went on alone. He has as good a chance or better than any of us to pass for a local worker and he will try to contact the innkeeper so the Faithful will know of our presence. If he is able to without raising suspicion, he will return before the morrow to report."

"He is young," said Éomer. "Could not one of the Northern Dúnedain have gone? They have more experience than he, than any of us."

"True, sire," Fastred said. "But I had only one of them with me and I deemed that they would be of better use to us in the forest. Bergil is young and looks more innocent than them, and he does not speak with a northern accent; I thought that he was less likely to raise the suspicion of the Corsairs than either of the two."

"Well, there is little to be done about it now, and you have shown that your judgement can be trusted in the past. We will have to wait and see, and hope Bergil will stay out of trouble."

They brought their horses into the cave with them. The weather had cleared as they descended from the mountain but what little warmth the sun had brought went with the sunset. Their clothes were still damp from the rain but they lit no fires. The warmth from the animals helped to keep the cold away and the men lay back to back when it was their turn to sleep.

Éomer king, unable to sleep, went among the sentries posted on the slope above the entrance of the cave. The chill of winter still tingled the night-air. The night was bright, a rare occurrence since their defeat. High above Éomer could see the stars. He sat down in the shade of a stone and rested his back against it. He closed his eyes for a moment and breathed. The smell of snowmelt from the mountains met and mingled with the moss and early birch-knots; the smell of green and white mixed in a scent of spring. The chill from the rock seeped through his cloak but the steady, unmoving strength of stone felt good. He let out his breath and opened his eyes.

"You make a poor ranger, lord king, even after all these years. You should not let anyone come upon you unannounced; all unprepared and dreaming."

Húrin stood above him, dark against the sky.

"I see no harm when it is a friend," Éomer replied. "I would have poor sentries if they let a foe come near me unchallenged. But I have no wish to bandy words with you tonight. Did you address your Chieftain thus when he sought solitude?"

At that the old Ranger bent down over him and hissed: "Do not speak of him!"

Éomer met his eyes. They stared at each other for one breath, for two. Silence rose around them blocking out all other sounds than the blood beating in their ears and the harsh breath in their mouths. They were so close that their breaths mingled in the chill air, warm and damp. None of them would yield this fight it seemed, and be the first to look away.

"He rose up before me out of the green grass of the Mark, and from that day I loved him. That love has not failed. It never will."

Húrin held his stare one last, long breath. Then he slumped and grew smaller, and drawing back he turned his face away.

Éomer closed his eyes again and leaned back, resting the back of his head on the uneven surface of the stone. He felt more than heard the other man sitting down beside him. For a time they sat like that, side by side, in silence. The night-sounds of the forest and the hillside filled the air around them. Éomer sat with closed eyes, drawing long, deep breaths. Húrin was ever watchful, his breathing silent and short.

"He seemed to have appeared right out of the grass."

Húrin turned at the sound. The king had opened his eyes but they were distant, seeking the images of ten years past.

"I trusted him then, and he did not betray that trust. He brought my sister back to me when I thought her dead. I thought him dead, and grieved. He was swallowed by the darkness, walked right into it; how could he be other than dead? When I learned that he was alive…" Éomer shook his head.

Húrin turned from him. His voice was quiet and soft, hardly more than a whisper.

"He was our hope. Now hope is dead."

Húrin said no more. They sat as before, Éomer leaned back against the stone and Húrin hunched forward, but it was the Rider that had opened his eyes and the Ranger that had closed his.

"Éala! Éarendel engla beorhtast ofer middangeard monnum sended."

Éomer spoke softly. Above them the Morningstar was clear against the night-sky, distant and untouched. It seemed to linger in the east, heralding dawn.

Húrin looked up. "You know that I don't speak the language of the Mark."

Éomer smiled. "But you understood me all the same." He paused. "Dawn is near. You should be on your post."

"I am. Since you refuse to keep the proper vigilance in the wild, lord of horses, someone will have to do it for you. Since I was the one that failed to teach you, it was considered just punishment that I be given the task."

"So that is why you always follow at my heel!" Éomer laughed softly. "I should have known. The Dúnedain seems to have little concern for rank. Did you…" He checked himself.

"Did I follow him as well?" Húrin said. "That was the question, was it not, lord king?

"Answer me this," he continued. "When you heard the news from Minas Tirith, what did you think?"

"On whether I should curse or thank," Éomer answered. "I still do not know which."

"We know," Húrin said. His voice was even and controlled. "Even in this darkness there are few that know better than the Dúnedain what fate awaits those trapped in the Land of Shadow. There were few the Enemy hated more than him, of Men perhaps none. We never speak of him; we cannot bear the thought." He rose. The first light was in the east. "But since we two now do speak: no. I did not follow him around like I do you. There was no need; it was he that taught me, not I him."

They said nothing more that night.

...

The sun had climbed beyond her midday height by the time Bergil returned.

"I had to stay the night to avoid suspicion," he said. "The Corsairs were everywhere. They did not bother much with me once they had taken what little money I had, but they questioned me on my name and what I was doing in Calembel. I told them I was seeking work and deemed it safer to stay the night lest they would question my story. They left the village this morning and headed south; they hoped to find richer pickings there. I left soon after."

"Then the village is safe," Éomer stated.

"But robbed dry, I wager," Fastred said, "and that means we must seek provisions elsewhere."

"Aye. I would have wanted to go into Calembel to hear tidings, but there is little food left and I will not linger. Were you able to gather news while you were there?" he asked Bergil. Bergil nodded. "Then we will seek to trade elsewhere. Make ready. I can hear the news while we ride."

"Sire," Bergil said. "We should not. You must hear my news now, and when you have heard our plans will change."

"We need food, son of Beregond. No news will change that."

"The lord Elfstone will be brought to Minas Tirith."

All went quiet at Bergil's words. Húrin stiffened. Bádon and Echil, who had stood at the back, pushed their way forward. The Riders let them pass.

"When?"

Húrin's voice was hardly more than a whisper.

"In less than a fortnight," Bergil replied. "He will be there for the celebrations."

"Then we have little time," said Húrin. "If we leave now…"

"We cannot," Fastred interrupted him. He turned to Éomer. "Lord, we need food. We cannot bring with us supplies on a rescue, even if the risk was not so high."

"We will not– cannot– turn away without trying!" Húrin's jaw was set, and his words were met with confirming nods and murmuring consent by the Dúnedain. It was clear that they had made up their minds.

"Éomer king."

Éomer looked at Fastred. He had hardly heard the commotion before the speaking of his name had borne his thoughts back. "Rescue?" he said. His words were whispered no louder than Húrin's 'when?' before.

"Lord, the risk is too high, and as you said before; we need food."

"Rescue?" Éomer repeated. "I had never thought it could be done." Both Fastred and Húrin were about to speak again, but Éomer waved them to silence. "I know that we need to get food, yet we might never have another chance like this." His words were met with nods from the Dúnedain, but Fastred shook his head.

"The risk is still too high," he argued, the voice of reason against the wild hope they hardly dared to acknowledge. "Even if we did not need the supplies so desperately, we cannot throw away so many lives on a slim chance. We are too few as it is."

"Then you can turn back, horselord, if you do not want to risk your own skin." Húrin's voice was cold and stern. "We will go."

Fastred was about to answer, but Éomer held up his hand. He looked at Bergil. "He will be there on the ninth, you said?"

"For certain," Bergil replied. "The main celebration is on that day, but he may be there earlier. The innkeeper will know more; I did not get the chance to speak with him. The Corsairs had taken all the rooms at the inn and I had to find other boarding. Asteth, Adeglan's widow put me up for the night."

"Then where did you get the news?" Fastred would know.

"The Corsairs announced it on the town square."

"The Enemy must have some plan," Éomer said. "You were right, Bergil; I will not turn from Calembel now. We must know more before we can decide what we must do. Still, we cannot abandon our first task. Fastred, find some men that can ride to the villages and the areas around them and see if there is any place we can buy the food we need. Have them meet with us in Calembel in two or three days; that way we will not waste any time on the search while we gather the news we will need to plan the best course of action."

Éomer's decision seemed to meet with the approval of the Rangers. Fastred recognized the tone in Éomer's voice and said no more. His misgivings would not be heard now; he would have to wait. The king would ask their counsel before deciding once they had learned more. He gave a short nod before he turned to give orders to the men.

The king was anxious to reach Calembel quickly, but it took some time to get the men ready. The Riders were quick to obey; they saw too clearly the thinness of their horses and the hunger in their friends. Most of them had not known or seen Elessar, and though they would seek to rescue any that they could from the Enemy, they would follow their king's ruling. The Dúnedain were another matter.

Fastred had chosen six men to seek out villages and homesteads that could provide the food they needed. They were to ride in pairs, but the rangers that were picked were not willing to give up the chance to have their say in the debate they knew would come. It was Bádon that protested most loudly, but he spoke for both Bragloth and Echil, the other Northern ranger. Fastred argued that they would need at least one in each pair that could blend with the farmers and villagers, but it did not sway them. Only after Húrin had spoken with them did they obey.

Bergil could tell that the Corsairs had gone south following the river Ciril and he thought that they would go towards Dol Amroth and the sea, but he could not be sure. Therefore the pairs were sent northward and westward, keeping within Lamedon and towards Tarlang's Neck and Erech. They all left the cave shortly after the last orders had been given, each group in their own directions.

"What did you say?" Éomer asked Húrin as they rode towards the village. "They were ready to rebel, and Fastred would have been their first victim."

"They are good men," Húrin said. "And they have seen hunger before; they know we need the food."

"They were ready to dismiss that need before you spoke with them. If that was your argument, they would have obeyed before." Éomer kept his voice even. "They should have obeyed without any argument at all."

"They are good men," Húrin repeated. Éomer waited, but Húrin said no more.

"Húrin," the king said. "I must know. In matters concerning all the Faithful, I do not claim to rule alone, though my own men sometimes question that decision, but here, in the field, I must know that all will follow my command."

"They are but shaken by the news."

"We all are; it is no excuse."

"It did not help matters that you insisted on taking Bergil and that young Rider with you instead of one of them." Húrin's voice had taken on a tone that Éomer had not heard in the ranger before. It was higher pitched than the deep sound that always gave the impression of trust, and Éomer knew. The Dúnedain would not return by the mountain-pass.

"Cearl is the swiftest rider here," Éomer said, "and if we are to attempt a rescue, we will need to alert the rest of the Faithful. I want the errand-rider to know our plans in full and not waste time to repeat it."

"And Bergil?"

"He knows the City better than any of us; that knowledge will be useful if we are to make any plans."

"Those are all good reasons," Húrin said. "But you must understand; they are afraid. They fear that you will too easily be swayed by your marshal and abandon him. They fear that they will live the rest of their lives knowing they could have saved him if only they had been there to change your mind."

Éomer said nothing at first. Then: "And you?"

"I told them you would no more abandon him than I."

Nothing more was said on the subject.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations, quotes and paraphrases:
> 
> Tark: orc-word for one of Númenórean decent.
> 
> Bereth (Sildarin): Queen
> 
> He rose up before me out of the green grass of the Mark, and from that day I loved him. That love has not failed. - Paraphrased from Éomer's words in RotK, The Steward and the King
> 
> I trusted him then, and he did not betray that trust. - Ibid
> 
> Éala! Éarendel engla beorhtast ofer middangeard monnum sended (OE): Hail Earendel the brightest of angels send to men above middle-earth. (Christ I, ll.104-105)


	5. Debates and Plans

They arrived in the afternoon. Éomer had set as quick a pace as he dared and they had made good time. The skins and pelts they brought to trade with had been divided among them, giving them a cover as hunters trading skins. To reinforce this impression, all but Éomer dismounted and led their horses before they came in sight of the village. The day was grey and a steady drizzle of rain gave the Eorlings an excuse to keep their hoods on and hide their blond hair.

Calembel was a small town. A wooden fence ran around it, hardly sufficient to keep an enemy out, but it would hinder any wild animals from straying inside. The houses lay close together, forming narrow streets; only the short way from the gate to the town square was broad enough for a wagon to pass. Close to the gate were barns and pens, buildings that housed the animals that were let out to graze every day. The people of Calembel did not risk them falling prey to the wolves that had grown more numerous every year.

The town itself looked quiet. Most of the people were still out in the fields; working to prepare for the ploughing and sowing of spring for the winter had been long even this far south. The gates themselves were open, but two men stood guard. They, too, had drawn up their hoods against the rain and it was not until they had come to a halt before them, and the guards looked up to address Éomer, that they could see their faces. One was known to them, Borondir who was one of the Faithful, but the other was not. Éomer greeted them cautiously, careful not to let the stranger see his face too clearly. Neither bore arms, except for a wooden staff. Once Calembel had been big enough to have a small force of Haradhrim soldiers but that was many years ago. Now none remained that where allowed to bear arms.

"You are too late, master hunter," Borondir said. "Corsair collectors left this morning; you will find little trade for your skins here."

"We met no one," Éomer answered.

"You would not," Borondir answered. "The corsairs went south, same way as they came, and did not seem to want to venture further inland. We heard that Erech was visited by Orcs a month ago and it is likely that the Corsairs knew as well."

Éomer nodded. "We found no trade there either," he said. If Erech had been plundered it would be harder to get supplies, but that worry would have to wait. First they needed to hear what the innkeeper could tell them. "We had hoped we could find some here, but I was forewarned," he gestured to Bergil who stood at the back. "The boy here told me."

The other guard peered at Bergil. "I thought you were looking for work, boy," he said. "You did not say you were a hunter."

"He is not," Éomer said. "We met him on the road. I lost a man this winter, and the boy looked as though he might be able to learn, so I took him in. I hope I am right; sometimes I am too soft-hearted for my own good."

"Huh," the man said, but he did not question the explanation further.

"Well," Éomer said. "Perhaps we should ride on, if, as you say, there is none left to trade with. It is getting late, though. Tell me; are there any inns or public houses close? A roof and dry clothes would be welcome."

"Aye," Borondir said. " _The Thirsty Traveller_  was once the best inn between Erech and Linhir. Perhaps Ingold, the innkeeper, will trade you some food and rooms for your pelts."

Éomer thanked him, but when he made to pass into the town, the other guard stopped him. "Your name, master hunter," he said.

"Rodhaer," Éomer said.

"An unusual name," the man said.

"I did not choose it myself," Éomer answered. "My father loved horses." He waited, but the guard did not move out of his way.

"If you have no further objections, I would rather not have to stay outside any longer than necessary," he said. "We have endured many days of rain, and would welcome a roof and a dry place to stay."

"Not at the moment," the guard said. "Be sure to see the Mayor before you leave, though. He likes to know who passes through his town, and who knows," he added, "Perhaps you can offer him something he would buy?" Éomer just nodded. The sentries let them pass.

The inn was easily the biggest house in the town. Years before the war the road from Erech had been more travelled than it was now, and the inn at Calembel had seen much trade in those days. It had stables and rooms enough for the sixty corsairs that had been there the night before, but in these days most of the rooms were empty and only the common room was in regular use.

Ingold was one of the men that had stayed in Minas Tirith when it fell. He marched with the men the Lord Elessar had sent to strengthen Minas Tirith after the capture of the Black Fleet and when it was clear that the Enemy could not be held back, he did not want to turn back without striking a single blow. He had not been wounded during that last fight and after the surrender he had been allowed to go back to Calembel since he came from there. His father had died only two years after the war, and Ingold had kept the inn open as best as he could after that. Éomer had come to rely on him for tidings from Gondor.

Whether it was because he had been expecting them or by chance, Ingold stood in the door of the inn when the travellers came.

"Welcome," he greeted them. "It seems my luck is getting better these days. Yesterday the inn was full and as soon as my guests did leave, new guests arrive! Come in, come in; you must be cold and wet from the road."

"We are," Éomer answered. "And so are our horses."

"Of course," said Ingold. "Sadly I have no servants to care for the stables these days– too few travel, and most of them on foot– but your men will find clean stalls, fresh straw and hay for the horses, and there is warm fires and food for yourselves inside."

"That is better news than I have heard in a long time," Éomer said. "A room, if you have, where we can dry both our clothes and our hides." He dismounted and handed Fastred the reins. "You and the boy take care of the horses and unload them. Show him how; Húrin will help me with our gear." Turning as if Fastred could have had nothing to say against this, he took what little gear he had and went into the inn.

Ingold showed Éomer and Húrin to their rooms. They lay at the end of the hallway on the second floor, too far away from the common rooms that to be bothered by the noise. There were three rooms there that connected to a larger room with chairs and a table and a fireplace for warmth on cold days. Whoever used these rooms could eat there in private, and no speech would be overheard unless by eavesdropping outside the door; the room had no windows to the streets below.

Ingold did not drop his mask as the eager and helpful innkeeper until he had shown them into the rooms and closed the door.

"It is good that you are here, lord," he said. "Though I had hoped that you would be here sooner; we do not have much time left."

"True," said Éomer. "Even so, your tidings shall have to wait a little longer; it could wake suspicion if you stayed too long with us now. Besides, Fastred will never forgive me if I do not wait for him."

"I will be a good innkeeper and find food and refreshments for you," Ingold said. "There is little chance that anyone should interrupt us though, for there is no other guest here and most of the village is working in the fields, but you are right. The girl will come shortly with warm water for you to wash. Alas, my manservant is away in the fields with the others and will be needed there; I will have to serve you myself."

"I am sure you will manage," Éomer remarked.

"I am sure I will," Ingold bowed, "even with such demanding customers as yourself. I will inform the girl that you will demand my attention for some time, should anyone ask." He paused, and when he spoke again the mirth had fled from his voice. "Copies of the papers reached me in the beginning of March, but I have had little other news until the corsairs' announcement today."

"Papers?"

"I was told that the Faithful in Minas Tirith had sent a runner directly to you; the tidings were considered worth the risk. Golwen copied them out in the Steward's own office. I would have thought it an unlikely stroke of luck, but with the Steward…"

"Faramir most likely arranged for that luck," Éomer said. "But we have had no news since the first snowfall. I have not seen any letter."

"Then you do not know! Lord Elessar…"

"Will be taken to Minas Tirith," Éomer interrupted. "I know what is at stake; Bergil heard the announcement, or we would have sought trade elsewhere. I see that there is more to learn here than I had thought. Fetch the food and have Fastred hurry; we can speak better then."

"You are right, lord Rodhaer." Ingold bowed again. "But I will bring you the letter first so that you can read it."

He opened the door to leave, and outside the servant-girl stood as if she just arrived. Both her arms were full with the water and towels she had brought. Ingold let her enter before he left.

The girl was a small, thin thing that looked far too young to be in service, but she did not have any trouble carrying the water. She worked quickly, filling warm water in the washbasin, laying out soap and towels for them to use and lighting the fire in the fireplace, but she did not look up or speak to them, and she kept as far away from them as she could. She was about to leave when Ingold came back.

"Ah, well done," he said. "Have you asked the guests if there is anything they need?"

"No, Master Ingold." Her voice was barely a whisper. It startled Éomer; he had almost thought her a mute. Looking at her more closely, he saw that she was shaking.

Húrin had seen it too. "We are fine, innkeeper," he said. "Something to wet our throat and food when it is ready is all we require."

"I will see to it," said Ingold. "Run along, girl, and see to the cooking." The girl curtsied and made her escape. Éomer got a glimpse of her face when she left; it was the face of one much older than he first had thought.

"She feared us," Húrin said.

"She came from Ethring last fall," Ingold said. "She has not told me much, but she was forced into service at far too young an age. She was a maid in the Mayor's house there from she was ten."

"She hardly looks more than twelve now."

"She is eighteen. I do not know why she is so small, but she was starving when she came. Usually she is less shy, but with the corsairs last night…" Ingold trailed off. "I needed her help serving so many, else I would have had her hidden away in the kitchen until they were gone. I tried to keep my eyes on her, but the corsairs are not the most well-mannered patrons. I smuggled her out before they got too drunk."

There was little else to say. He handed Éomer the letter and left.

Éomer had just read and passed the letter on to Húrin when someone kicked at the door. It was Fastred and the two youths. Wet skins and hides filled their arms and their eyes could barely be seen above the burdens. The king held open the door for them; despite the spectacle they made the words of the letter had quelled all mirth and he did not answer Fastred's mumbled words of giving a hand. The men dumped the hides on the floor and looked up.

One look told them that whatever tidings he had received, Éomer king was not pleased.

"Lay the skins out to dry in one room; we can share the rest. Ingold has gone to fetch food and when he returns, we have much to discuss."

They did as ordered, draping the hides over the chairs and beds and laying them out on the floor to dry away from the fire that they would not become brittle and stiff. Fastred helped the two youths, torn between the wish to question his king and learn more, and to stay away from him until his mood had improved. If it could. The king was walking back and forth. He would stop at the door and stand there, then turn abruptly and walk around the room. Then the pattern would repeat.

Húrin was reading the letter. Again and again, as if by the mere act of reading the words would change, their meaning would change: the world would change and he would wake, and see that the last ten years had never been. Fastred watched them through the doorway of the room they had chosen.

"Finish here," he ordered and returned to their common room. Neither of the two men acknowledged him, but Éomer stopped to stare at the flames instead of the door. Fastred came to stand beside him.

"You promised that I would hear the news with you, my lord."

Éomer worked the muscles of his jaw, loosening them before he spoke. "Ingold will return soon. He left us a copy of some papers we should have received; Minas Tirith had sent a messenger directly to us and unless he was intercepted, it should have reached us before we left. If it had, I would not have come here with so few men."

"What is it?" Fastred asked. "What does it say?"

"Húrin," Éomer said. The ranger looked up from his reading. "Tell him." Húrin nodded.

"It is a copy of a letter sent to the Steward," he said. "It says that the Enemy will 'finally honour the people of Gondor with a most gracious visit during the celebration in memory of Gondor's inclusion under the protection of Mordor. The King of the East and Protector of the Western Lands looks forward to what He is certain, indeed expects, to be a celebration of exceptional magnificence, proportionate to the people of Gondor's gratitude for these ten years of peace and protection. As a token of His great mercy and good will, He will bring with Him His guest, the king Elessar of Gondor, in whom the blessings of the great Lord's protection can be seen and witnessed.

'The Lord will arrive with his following on the seventh day of April, at which time all should be ready for the festivities that will begin on that day and continue for the next three days. The merciful Lord," he spat the word, "will stay for the duration of the celebration and leave with his company after a demonstration of his power on the last day.' It continues, but there is not much more of it that is useful to us. The plans of the celebrations are not specified here; it seems like there were one or more persons sent to deliver the letter, and that they were to inform the Steward of the plans in person and see to the preparations."

Fastred nodded, but when he spoke, it was to his king. "We can do nothing. If the Enemy is coming too, we can do nothing. We are too few to attempt a rescue as it is, but even if all the Faithful were gathered, we would not be able to do anything as long as the Enemy is in Minas Tirith."

"You would just give him up?" Húrin said. He was still staring at the letter. The flames from the fireplace cast a flickering of shadow and light on his face, distorting his features. Fastred could not read his expression or his tone of voice, but he could see the tension in his body.

"We could as well attempt a rescue from the Dark Tower itself." Fastred shook his head. "Unless we learn some other news that could leave us some hope of success, we will achieve nothing but the death of many. We may as well cut our own throats now for all the good it will do both us and the lord Elessar."

"Read it yourself," Éomer said, cutting off any argument that Húrin might have given, "and see if you can learn anything from it that might give us that glimmer. When Ingold returns, we will discuss it further. He may have learned more, by rumours or from the corsairs last night, than what is in these papers. The corsairs like to brag; perhaps they have heard something they would boast about, something that could be useful to us."

"My lord," Fastred said. "Do not hope for too much. If the Enemy himself is coming…" he broke off.

"Just read."

Éomer went back to his pacing. Húrin handed Fastred the papers without any words. He did not look at him, but stood and went to check on how the hides were spread out. Bergil and Cearl had finished, but neither had dared to leave to room; they had heard the conversation. Húrin told them to put their things in the empty room facing the square. They went without a word. He was avoiding their eyes, checking the street below through the window.

They were all grateful when Ingold came back. The girl was with him. She carried plates and cups and laid the table while Ingold bustled and busied himself with the arranging of the food. Ingold told her to keep an eye on the inn and to fetch him herself if any more guests arrived, and steered her out of the room. She glanced at Bergil once, but left without speaking a word.

"Do you know her?" Húrin had seen the glance.

"No, captain," Bergil answered. "She might have seen me last night when I tried to get a room– I know I saw her– but I did not speak with her. I do not even know her name."

"It must be your good looks she likes, then."

Bergil blushed at that, and Húrin smiled. He was about to say something more, but Ingold called them to the table and Húrin was grave once more. They gathered for the Standing Silence, now only practiced by the Faithful behind closed doors, and sat to eat.

There was bread, only a day old, and butter and cheese. Ingold had warmed wine for them against the chill of the rain; it was mixed with water, but even so, it was more tasty than any they had had all winter long. And by the fire he set a pot of warm stew, a stew of grain and beans and meat and what vegetables that still could be had after the winter all mixed together – the leftovers of the corsairs' meal the night before. It was hot and they were hungry, and the unfamiliar taste of the spices the corsairs had demanded did not keep them from eating. Éomer had not tasted such spices before; faintly sweet and hot with a taste that lingered after the meal, not quite the same as when the food rolled over his tongue.

They ate in silence for a while. Éomer did not want to begin to talk, not yet. Ingold waited for him to speak first, but in the end it was Bergil that could not wait any longer.

"When will we leave, then?" he asked. Neither Éomer nor Húrin gave any answer, and Fastred seemed to wait for the king to speak. "Well? Have you heard enough news to make plans? We will have to leave soon if we are to reach Minas Tirith in time."

"Bergil, hold your tongue," said Fastred. "I know you two heard us, you know that this can not be done."

"Excuse me, Master Rider," Ingold said, deciding that the time for food was over and the time to talk began, "but if you believe that, why did you come?"

"Fastred was doubtful of the undertaking before we saw your letter," said Éomer. "We came for food; the winter has been hard and we have little left to eat apart from game and the Ents' water. Too little to feed men or beasts until the grass begins to grow again. I brought only enough men to bring back what we need to survive."

"We came  _here_  for tidings," he continued. "To see, when we heard the news of the lord Aragorn, if there could be some small hope for us to free him. But I must also consider our men and horses; we will do Aragorn little good if we freed him to starve with us, and so our plans must also include some way to bring the provisions we need to Fangorn."

"He would rather starve in freedom than be the thrall of the Enemy," Húrin said.

"I know," Éomer said, "but would he want many to starve with him? Would he allow it? I cannot; most of them are my people and I must think of them. But Ingold," he turned to the inn-keeper, "you have seen this letter; how is it that you think we could have a chance of snatching him from underneath the Enemy's nose? We could not hope to free him even if all the Faithful were gathered, not when the Enemy will be there."

"Did not two Halflings enter the Black Land itself alone to battle the Enemy?" Ingold asked. "Or are the rumours wrong?"

"They did," Éomer sighed. "The Enemy won."

"Still, with so many pitted against us, a few men might get in where an army will crush upon the defences in vain."

"Ingold is right," Húrin said. "We can not retake Minas Tirith, but a few men might be able to get in to rescue him. The City will be full of people; it is larger than Edoras ever was and there will be many travelling there for the celebrations. Even if the people of Gondor do not celebrate their defeat willingly, many will come this year. The Enemy wants it, or he would not have had it heralded throughout Gondor. If the corsairs announced it here, there will be similar declarations made in all towns and villages."

"You forget, or choose to forget, that the Enemy himself is coming," Fastred interrupted before Húrin could continue. "How do you propose we can do anything under his nose?"

"The Enemy sees much," Húrin answered, "but not all. Even now he cannot see everything or be everywhere. Gandalf managed to escape his dungeons once, unaided if I have heard the story right, and Minas Tirith is less secure now than Dol Guldur was then."

"And we have no Wizard with us."

"If I may," said Ingold. Éomer nodded, silencing Fastred. "I do not think the Enemy will come himself, even thought it says so in the letter. The corsairs made no mentioning of him, and the last tidings I received from the Faithful in Minas Tirith were that he would not come. Faramir was ordered to build him a temple, but it will not be finished in time for the celebration. The Enemy was not happy with that, the rumours say, and will not come until it is ready."

"Are you certain?" Éomer asked.

"I believe it is true. From what little I could overhear of the corsairs' speech last night, the Master of Orthanc will preside at the celebrations. They did not seem to know that the Enemy ever had any plans to come himself."

"You said that he did not come because of this temple that Faramir was to build." Fastred interrupted again.

"Yes," Ingold answered. "But that rumour comes from the Faithful in Minas Tirith; I have not heard even a whisper of a rumour that the Enemy planed to come himself from any other traveller. If the news in the letter has spread beyond the Steward, it has only been shared with those of higher rank."

"Why would that be?" Éomer mused.

"Most would be too frightened to travel to Minas Tirith for the celebration unless ordered to if they knew that the Enemy would come," Húrin offered. "And he would want as many as possible to come. Those of rank would not risk his wrath by staying away."

"Then, is it possible," Éomer asked before Fastred could speak up again, "that the Enemy will indeed come, but keeps his plan a secret?"

"Perhaps," Ingold said. "But I doubt it. It does not sound like something the Enemy would do. It is more likely that he would have everyone pronounce it, with an order for people to show up. They have given that already; every village is required to send at least two men to the City to witness the celebration. The towns must send more, according to their number."

"Your words ring true," Éomer said. "But I would fail at my duty to my people if I were to risk a rescue with the Enemy so close, however much I would wish to."

Húrin rose from the table. With the fire at his back, only the flicker of the candlelight lightened his face, too frail to drive the shadows from his face.

"I have not heard enough to abandon him yet, King of the Mark."

"Neither have I," Éomer said. "Sit down, Westman, and do not judge me until I have spoken to the end.

"I can not risk a rescue on the tidings we have now; we must seek to learn the truth about the Enemy's plans before I can commit. However," Éomer halted another outburst from Húrin, "I know that time is short. We will therefore see if there might be a way, and plan until we can confirm whether the Enemy will be there or not. Will that satisfy you?"

"Yes."

"Good," said Éomer. "I would like some maps, if you have, Ingold. We will mostly need some of Minas Tirith, but I am afraid none of us know the roads ahead very well."

"Maps are forbidden," Ingold said. "I have not dared keep any. But I know the road well enough to tell you how much time you will need, and you know the country around the Pelennor, I think. Minas Tirith might pose a greater problem."

"We will have to rely on the memory of young Bergil, then." Éomer paused for a moment to gather his thoughts, and Fastred seized that moment to speak again.

"My lord, may I ask how we are going to find out the Enemy's plan if Ingold has no other tidings?"

"That you can leave to me," said Éomer. "For the time being, let us plan as if the rumours have been proven true. First, we need to know how many men we have and how many we will need. We must find food and bring it home; how many men and horses do we need for that?"

"If we load the horses and lead them, four should be able to carry the supplies we need. It will be less than we hoped to bring, but enough to survive another two months or so." Húrin spoke as if he had given it a lot of thought. He probably had. "We should send three men with them. Two would be enough to lead them, but they will be more vulnerable if they are detected. One more man would help even the odds."

"Good," said Éomer. "We can be as many as six then; I will want to send one as a messenger to Wellinghall as soon as we know what we will do. Though we might have a better chance with fewer numbers, we might need help before we reach Fangorn. Will that be enough? I have little experience of freeing anyone; my own imprisonment was short and not because anyone broke me out."

"I once had to free my brother," said Húrin, "and though neither prison nor guard posed much of a challenge then, I think that it is doable. I would have liked some more men, and, more importantly, more than one that knows the City well; still I would attempt it even alone. Not all should risk the rescue itself anyway; it will be easier to sneak one or two people into whatever place they will hold him."

"You are not going alone," said Éomer. "How many more men?"

"Two at the least. We do not know what shape he will be in and we may have to carry him, thought I doubt they would parade him if he is not able to stand or walk."

"The Faithful in the City will help," said Ingold. "They might even have made plans of their own by now, but there will be no safe place to hide him anywhere in Gondor, let alone in Minas Tirith."

"Do you know how many there are now?" Éomer asked. "Have any been taken, or new ones joined?"

"Five score, I believe, that might be willing to help. We will need to find Damrod, he would know if any plans have been made."

"So we will have enough men, then."

Fastred spoke up again. "If they are that many, and you think they will attempt a rescue, why are we doing the same? Would it not be more prudent to leave it to them and not risk the lives of all? Three men leading fully-loaded horses will raise suspicion even in the Emnet; we could easily loose all if they are spotted."

"The Faithful in Minas Tirith will do nothing on their own." Ingold sighed. "Most have no means to escape the City themselves; they have no horses and few or no weapons. Of them many would not leave even if they could, though a few would probably do so. There will be no safe places to hide him, and no means to hold off any guards should it come to a fight.

"We are losing heart." The statement hung in the air, heavy as lead. It pressed on their own hearts and minds and it made Éomer want to throw himself heedlessly on any enemy in his path, only to leave him frozen, nailed in place; helpless to act. He waited for Ingold to continue.

"The first years after the war, we were all bound up in the struggle to survive. As things settled, we became used to the taxing and the threats, the new laws and the arrogance of the corsair raiders. We could live a little again, not fight for survival every day, and we began to resist. Small and insignificant enough that our enemies seemed not to care, yet whenever we tried something more than exchange tidings or the odd disappearance, our rebellion bore no fruit, only devastation. And now we have accepted our lot. Here in Calembel alone has any hope survived and even that is meagre. We know that we only have some freedom because we are deemed to be of little worth and little influence; we can safely be ignored because was can do nothing that will harm the Enemy. And so we have grown impotent and unable to act, should we even want to.

"The Faithful in Minas Tirith will not act unless you come and relight their will to fight, horsemaster. Among them only Mablung would still act, but he is too well known; he would never get near enough for a rescue. He will likely be placed under guard while the lord Elessar is there. Damrod has been more cautious, but he will not convince any of the others to act on his own. They might lay plans, but they will not act alone. We are too soundly beaten, and as the years pass with no succour, we are losing heart." Ingold paused. He was tall like most Men of Gondor and Éomer remembered that he had been broad as well, but he had shrunk since last he saw him, as if his body mirrored the dwindling of his spirit. He remembered the servant girl, her small frame hardly rivalling the height of the Hobylta, and he wondered if the blood of Númenór would cause the body to change with the spirit.

"When I first read this letter," Ingold spoke on, lost in his own memory. "I did not even think of the horror of the Enemy coming. I could only think of  _him_ , and my heart woke for the first time in years. I marched to the White City on his word when I saw him command the Dead and grant them rest. My heart sang with joy, even marching to a war he never promised us to survive because I had seen him. Strong as the kings of old, and our hopes had come to pass. The king had returned; how could we lose? How could my heart not sing, even on the way to the battlefield?"

"So I followed with the rest, marching, marching, ever marching up to the Tower of Guard. Our feet were swift, our spirits strong, and the rhythm we measured with the soles of our feet beat in time with the rhythm of my heart. It was joy and glory and the music of the sea. I was young, despite my years, and foolishly thought that we would win if only we believed so.

"I wept to learn I could not fight with him at the Gate, and though a shadow fell on all when the Enemy regained his power, I still could not believe we could ever truly lose. Not when the rumours came, not even when you, lord Rodhaer, bore certain word of our defeat. I could not leave the City then and turn back without one stroke offered against the Enemy, and my heart hoped, even as I saw the Black Host and we fought against them, that he would come, bringing dead warriors.

"He came, and death came with him; but it was the death of my hopes, the death of my heart. I stood on the walls of the last circle and I saw him brought to his knees; a coin to buy Faramir's surrender."

Ingold was silent for a long time. He did not meet their eyes and despite their urgency, none could bring themselves to break that silence until Ingold would speak again.

"I did not want to stay in the City after, and would have left sooner if we had been allowed. But the servant of the Enemy, his foul Mouth, would not let any leave until midsummer had passed. I stood in the streets, like the whole city forced out to witness the display: the mockery of our reawakened dream. I had thought to close my eyes, a small and pointless gesture, but I had to somehow resist their rule, or, I felt, I could not go on living. But, when the murmurs and the whispering started, I could not hold onto my resolve. I had to look at him, and despite it all I saw that he was still the same. It was the Man that I had seen command the Dead, strong even in defeat. I saw then what I had not seen in the dark of our final fight: that beaten he would stand, even on his knees.

"We did not know what the Enemy had planed to do, and I do not know if he knew, but my heart dared to remember its song when we were told who it was that was crowned that day. It was the image of him standing in the cart, tall and strong despite their efforts, that made the news a joy and not the mockery they planed.

"The song has nearly faded; ten years is long when all is dark and growing slowly worse each passing year, but now… now I try to still my heart, so that it will not break. I dare not act, and I dare not to not act, lest we fail.

"In this I am not alone."

Ingold shook his head and looked down. "We need your help, if only to stir our hearts to action; they have been dormant too long. We no longer know how to act."

It was Húrin that answered him: "We will, if we can."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Rodhaer – Sindarin for Éomer (OE 'horse famous', from Eoh – warhorse, and mér – famous, great. Sindarin: roch – horse, and daer – great. Combination courtesy of Darth Fingorn's Sindarin name generator, and much back and forth on e-mail with Ainu Laire. I do not know any Sindarin myself.)


	6. The Mayor of Calembel

Fastred had said no more to dissuade Éomer from planning a rescue during the rest of their meeting. After Ingold's tale, the king had given him one look and he knew better than to speak up again. With no more interruptions, some sort of plan swiftly began to take shape.

Cearl would ride to Fangorn as soon as they were ready to inform the Faithful in Wellinghall of their plans. Though they all agreed that a smaller number was better for the rescue, they would need help soon enough. Crossing the border would be difficult, as would the trek across the plains.

The three other Riders would take what provisions they could buy and bring it back; the rest would attempt the rescue. They had not been able to think of a better cover than for them to be travellers wanting to be in the White City for the celebrations. Neither Fastred nor Húrin was very happy with that plan, but Éomer told them to leave it to him. He would find a better way, though what that was, he would not yet say.

After the planning had proceeded as far as it could, Éomer sent a messenger to the Mayor of Calembel, one Aduiar of Harondor, who had corsair blood in him. Bergil was chosen for the task; being only a year older than Cearl, and as the only one other than Éomer who spoke the Common Tongue in the manner of Gondor, he would attract the least suspicion. Fastred had doubts about the wisdom of drawing the attention of the mayor to them. It would be better, he argued, to avoid contact with as many as possible, and especially one in power. Éomer answered that he thought it prudent to contact the mayor like the unknown guard at the gate had suggested, and it was better to send someone before the guard reported them himself. He would hear no other arguments and only bade Bergil to get ready.

Bergil put his cloak on. The heavy wool had not dried all the way through and was still a little damp, but the fire had warmed it and it smelled of heat and smoke and wet sheep. It would keep him warm. Outside rain still fell and evening was drawing near. Twilight had darkened the street. Before he went, Éomer gave him a small purse with three coins in it.

"Give this to the mayor," he said. "And tell him that Master Rodhaer has lodged at the inn and has many fine furs and skins that he might wish to see. We will stay the night, tell him, and leave at midday if we find no market for our goods before then. Tell him that the sentry at the gate suggested we speak with him and ask him what answer he would wish to give. Remember his words exactly."

Bergil nodded and left.

The mayor's house was the largest in Calembel, save the inn. It was new, built only three years after the War when Calembel still retained some of its importance and influence. The mayor at the time had been an ambitious man and ordered a house built in stone after the manner in Minas Tirith with a courtyard paved with smooth stones and a garden on one side.

Three storeys high it loomed over the smaller houses. White stone covered the walls facing out, but at the back, where the servants and animals lived, the stones were grey and dull.

Most of the house stood empty, for when it was made the armed body of Haradhrim soldiers had been stationed in Calembel and room had been made to house them. The barracks were empty now, even when a patrol passed through; they preferred to lodge at the inn where they could be served rather than tend themselves. The present mayor preferred them there, too, and so the house was mostly empty, save for where the mayor and his servants lived.

Bergil was met at the door by a servant. The man had the dark hair that most men in Gondor had, a somewhat smaller stature and in other ways no memorable feature; or he would have, if not for the scar that ran from the corner of his right eye to the lobe of his ear.

"Yes?" the servant asked.

"I have come to deliver a message to the lord mayor," Bergil said. "It is from my master, the hunter Rodhaer."

"It is late," the servant said. "The lord mayor has retired for the evening. Get back to your master and tell him to conduct his business in the daytime." He moved to close the door but Bergil hurried to speak before he could shut it close.

"Please, Master Rodhaer sends this." He held out the purse that Éomer had given him. The servant took it and felt the three coins inside. Bergil continued lest the servant would shut the door once he had taken the purse.

"Master Rodhaer bade me give it to the lord mayor, and he also bade me tell that he has many fine furs and skins with him to trade. He has lodged at the inn and will stay the night. The sentry at the gate said that the lord mayor would like to see our goods, and master Rodhaer would be honoured if the lord mayor would wish to view them in private. My master will be staying at the inn until midday unless we find a market before that time. If the lord mayor wishes, Master Rodhaer will not sell any of his goods until the lord mayor has had a chance to see the furs himself."

"Wait here," the servant said. He closed the door, leaving Bergil to stand outside in the rain.

Bergil huddled his cloak around him and waited, stamping his feet from time to time to keep warm. The heat from the fire had long gone from the cloak, but inside the heavy wool Bergil stayed warm despite the water seeping back into the cloth. He tried to use the doorway to shield himself a little from the weather; it was large and deep. The frame was dark against the white stones, with thick, broad boards of oak. The door, too, was made of heavy oak, polished and painted. It was carved in an intricate pattern of triangles and squares fitted together by crisscrossing lines. Bergil tried to follow the maze created by the pattern, but one line merged with the next until the eyes were confused and lost the path it had followed.

The patterns continued in the frame so that the line between the door and frame was hard to see. Above the door, triangles rose in mountaintops and at the bottom, square spirals whirled in stylized waves. At the middle of the door, where the maze ended or began, the knocker had been shaped to the likeness of a head, hideous and orc-like. On its forehead a great eye was fashioned to an emblem. Bergil shuddered and turned away.

The steps that led up to the door would have been white like the house if not for the mud in the streets that did not wash away in the rain. One whole slab of stone had been cut for each step.

A crack had formed on the top step where Bergil stood, splitting it in two. The crack was clean, though no form or plan had governed its making. Bergil did not know, could not know, that it had been made six years before when one of the Haradrim soldiers had brought an Oliphant to the town. It was the first and last time such an animal was seen in Calembel and the soldier, wanting to prove the obedience of the beast, had steered it up to the house and had it put its forefeet on the top stair. The great animal, almost as high as the second storey, had set one treelike column of a foot on the stone and the crack could be heard, the story in Calembel went, all the way to the gate. The mayor's scream, it was said, had carried all the way to the sea. The year after, the mayor had left, leaving Aduiar of Harondor to rule in his place. No one in the town grieved that he never returned. Aduiar was given the office and the house.

Bergil stood in contemplation of this crack when the door opened.

"Tell your master that the lord mayor will look at his goods tomorrow before midday." The servant stood in the door, looking at Bergil with contempt. "And if you are sent on any more errands, remember that the kitchen door is at the back."

"Wait," said Bergil. "Was that his words?"

"That was his message, what do you care about his words?"

"Master Rodhaer bade me bring the lord mayor's exact words."

"The lord mayor Aduiar said," the servant said, ice lacing his words, "that he would be pleased to see Master Rodhaer's goods tomorrow at the lord mayor's leisure. The lord mayor is sure that your master would gain much by speaking with the lord mayor before he accepts any other offers for his services." The servant did not take his eyes from Bergil the whole time; they bored into him, cold and stern.

"Those were the words of the lord mayor. Now leave."

He closed the door on Bergil for the second time. Bergil did not wait for it to happen a third. He turned and walked back to the inn. Twilight was almost over and he pulled his hood over his face against the beating rain. In the dark and between the hood and the rain, he was almost blind and deaf, finding his way by luck and instinct rather than sight. He neither saw nor heard the man who slipped from the shadows of the houses and round to the back of the mayor's house. Soon the kitchen door was opened and the sentry who had stood guard with Borondir stepped into the house and was greeted by the servant.

If Bergil had seen, he might have worried a little more on his way back, and he might have mentioned it to Éomer king when he reported the mayor's words back. The king might have acted differently then, and events might not have turned out like they did. But Bergil did not see, and he did not report back, and so the story unfolded as it did.

Since they had only spoken to the innkeeper, Húrin suggested that they spent some time in the common room that evening. After the corsair's message earlier, people would have much to talk about, and the common room of an inn was always the best place to hear gossip. Éomer agreed.

Fastred did not.

He was, however, calmed when it became clear that Éomer had no intentions to join Húrin himself. The king would stay in their rooms, and ordered Fastred and Cearl to stay with him; that much light hair could easily attract too much attention. Though Calembel had always been relatively safe, Éomer was wary. There was a different feeling to the town that he did not like, though what had caused it, he could not say. Fastred had felt it too, and he did not like it.

"I sense a greater watchfulness," Húrin said. "Both Borondir and Ingold took more care than they usually feel the need to. Were it only Borondir, I would blame it on the new sentry, but Ingold had little reason to fear. I do not think the maid would carry any stories further, though looks can deceive."

"You and Bergil find out what you can," Éomer said. "And I do not have to tell you to be cautious."

"No, you do not," Húrin said. He smiled. "I have gathered news before, and here we will likely not need to even ask, just keep our eyes and ears open. Come, lad, and let us see if that maid still favours you."

Bergil mumbled something under his breath, but he did not complain, though he had just returned.

Éomer spent much of the evening studying the rough map that Bergil had drawn of Minas Tirith. At one point he left to see how Firefoot was doing; it was not that he did not trust Fastred to care for the horse, but he needed to see for himself. The last ten years the stallion had lived outdoors, with a few exceptions, and he objected more and more to being stabled. Éomer wanted to be sure that he had settled in.

He was able to avoid the people that had gathered in the common room and thought he would reach the stable without meeting anyone. He almost did, but as he was about to open the stable-doors, a voice stopped him.

"Master hunter, may I have a word?"

Éomer turned, his hand still on the handle of the door. He could not see anyone, but one of the shadows by the walls moved. "What do you want, and why do you not show yourself?"

The figure of a man emerged from the shadow and into a stream of light falling from a window.

"I think you know me, master hunter, and why we need to talk," Borondir said. "I did not mean to alarm you, but I wanted to make sure no one saw us together. I have waited here for some time."

"You could have waited in vain," Éomer said. "Why did you not talk to Ingold? He could have taken you to our rooms."

"I could have been seen. Besides, I did not think you would retire for the night without checking on your horse."

"We can be seen here," Éomer said, ignoring the second comment. "Let us go inside." He opened the door to the stable. With a quick look around, Borondir followed him in.

The stable was dark, but there was a lantern by the door and Éomer soon had it lit. The horses turned when they entered, and a soft murmur greeted Éomer. Bereth nickered when he saw him, but there was one face Éomer did not see. Firefoot had been given the innermost stable and Éomer could only see his back. He walked past the other horses, letting Borondir follow as he wished.

Firefoot stood with his hindquarters turned towards the stable-door and his head to the wall separating him from Fastred's mare. Unlike most of the Eorlingas, Fastred had always preferred mares and would choose to ride one when he could. He had to endure many taunts for this, but that had not stopped him. Now the mare stood much like Firefoot, both hanging their heads and sulking.

"Hi boy," Éomer called softly. He got no response. Firefoot did not even move one ear towards him. Éomer opened the door and clicked his tongue at him. "Move over, boy. Let me look at you." The horse moved, but he bared his teeth and pressed his ears flat against his head to make it clear he was not happy. Éomer ignored his antics.

"Lord," Borondir began, but he was cut off when Firefoot stuck his head out of the box and bared his teeth at him, since it had not worked on Éomer.

"Do not mind him," Éomer said. "It is all show; he knows better than to bite."

"I would rather not test that," Borondir said. "A bite would be hard to explain, and rather painful to endure."

"Do not stand so close to the door," Éomer said, "and you will be safe. He does not like being stabled; living outdoors has spoiled him. But he will just have to endure it."

"Lord, I do not understand."

"It is not important," Éomer said. "What did you need to speak with me about?"

"I have a warning, lord," said Borondir. "And I hope it does not reach you too late; I could not abandon my post and was not able to give it sooner."

"That can not be helped," Éomer said. "Speak, I am listening, thought it may not look that way." He turned to Firefoot and began looking him over.

"My warning is simple; do not stay in Calembel. Leave before the sun rises tomorrow, or you may not be able to leave at all."

"Why is that?"

"The winter has been hard, lord," Borondir said, "and not only for the sake of snow. The mayor has changed. He is become more suspicious, or else more ambitious – I do not know which will prove worse. Since he came, he has let us live much like we have wanted, working in the fields and tending the animals. As long as we kept our heads down and paid our taxes, he let us be. We were safe here, as safe as any could be in Gondor these days.

"This winter it changed. The mayor hired a new man who spies for him and eggs him on. You have met him; he stood with me at the gates when you came. This man, this Gwidor, will surely have reported your arrival to the mayor. It was s good thing your hoods were up, or he would have had even more to tell."

"We all sensed that there was some change wrought in Calembel," Éomer said. "But we did not know from whence it came. Other matters seemed of greater importance and I did not ask Ingold about it when we spoke."

"Yes," Borondir said. "The corsairs' announcement. We had some forewarnings, but we could not quite believe the rumours until yesterday. What is your plan?"

"I have not decided on anything yet," said Éomer. He let his hands run over Firefoot's flanks and legs and down the neck and back, seeking out any cuts or swellings the stallion might have. He found no grave wounds, but the legs were thick and swollen and the he did not want to lift his hind-feet. Éomer stood up.

"Húrin and the Dúnedain wish to ride straight to Minas Tirith, but I will not send any man to his death, or capture, in vain. And we desperately need food, if only for a short while until the grass begins to grow again and the animals return; I have men searching even now. Before I know more about the celebration, I cannot risk that quest."

"Do not linger here to find out," Borondir said. "Leave before the mayor decides that you and your men should be detained."

"I have already sent for him," Éomer said. "I cannot leave without seeing him; it will arouse far more suspicions."

"Then be careful what you say or do," Borondir said. "We do not need another captured king." He turned to leave. Éomer stopped his examination of the horse.

"Borondir, wait!"

"Lord?" The man turned back.

"Please, I must know, if you would answer," Éomer said. "What would you have me do?"

Borondir straitened his shoulders. For a moment his jaw locked as he clenched his teeth. His eyes flashed, and he looked as if he had just stepped off the last ship from Númenór.

"Let me go with you when you get him out."

He gave a short bow and left. Éomer did not need to ask of whom he spoke. Standing alone beside Firefoot's stable, he remembered that Borondir had once served in the Citadel Guard.

When Éomer returned, he found Fastred pacing in the outer room.

"I am safely back," he told him. "You can stop wearing holes in the floor; Ingold would not be pleased to find you falling through the kitchen roof."

"Sire."

"Do not 'Sire' me," Éomer said. "And do not stand there like you are being reprimanded."

"My lord?"

Fastred did not stand to attention, but he could have fooled anyone. He held his body straight, Éomer would almost have said stiff, and looked past his king at a point somewhere at the wall. Éomer had seen that stance before, had even taken it himself before Théoden fell. He remembered standing in the Golden Hall with his eyes fixed on the carved horse on the right ear of the king's chair, trying not to hear the words of Gríma in his uncle's mouth. Fastred were more relaxed than Éomer had been then, but Éomer did not like it. Something was brewing, had been for a time. Cearl must have noticed it even before Éomer arrived; he was nowhere to be seen and the door to the room he shared with Bergil was closed.

"I am tired, Fastred, and restless," Éomer said, deciding to avoid further confrontation. "I would not have been able to rest without some distraction. Besides; you know how much Firefoot has come to loath stables. I wanted to make sure he had not torn it down; Ingold would take that even less kindly than you falling through the kitchen roof. None saw me, except for Borondir, and he was looking."

"You spoke with Borondir, sire?"

It turned out to be a good diversion from whatever Fastred had been brooding over. Fastred broke his stance and met Éomer's eyes again. The king swiftly told what they had spoken about, and though Fastred did not relax at the news; he had something new to worry about. It was enough for Éomer to turn their words away from Fastred's disapproval of his little trip.

Nothing more of note happened that night.

...

It was early the next morning when Ingold came knocking at the door. The five men were already awake though the sun had barely risen. A thin ray of light had found its way through the half-open shutters of the eastern room, bleeding through the door to pool on the floor of the dark inner room. Húrin was already stacking the logs in the fireplace and Fastred watched the door. The sunlight was so far the only thing that lit the room, for the lamps had burned out the night before and the girl had not yet been there to refill them.

In the pool of light there was a shadow, moving in the pattern of the king's morning toilet.

Éomer cupped his hands and dipped them in the washbasin. The clear water filled his hands and he held it for a moment, just above the rim of the basin. Clean, fresh, warm water dripped in bright drops between his fingers. He took a breath, and then brought his face and hands together. Diamond drops fell back into the bowl, washing over his face and skin to trickle down between his shoulder blades and pour over his throat.

"Sire?"

He took the towel and dried himself off. Fastred stood in the doorway with Ingold hovering behind him.

"Yes?"

"My lord," Ingold began. "The Mayor is here. He brought with him two men in addition to his servant: a clerk and a guard. He asks for you."

"I did send him a message," said Éomer. "It should hardly surprise you that he would come."

"But this early?" Ingold shook his head. "And with a guard? At least he brought Borondir – he will not betray you – and not Gwidor, though that is strange."

"How so?" Éomer asked.

"Gwidor came last autumn from the south," Ingold explained. "From Linhir he told us, but I wager he well could have come from further away, and he has wormed his way into the Mayor's favour. We have had to be more careful this winter than before because of him; already two men have been questioned because of his tales. The Mayor held them for three days."

"Were they hurt?" Éomer dropped the towel on the bed and reached for his shirt. Fastred beat him to it.

"No, thankfully not," Ingold said. "They came out no worse than they went in; a little more cold and hungry perhaps, but less so than we all have felt when the winter was cold and the larders bare."

"Arms?"

"My lord?"

"Are any of the men armed?"

"There has been no armed guard in Calembel since mayor Aduiar came five years ago. They make do with oaken staffs. I do not know about the mayor himself"

"The mayor does not concern me as much," Éomer said. "But this new man…" He trailed of, lost in thought while he tried to dress, but with Fastred acting as his aid, Éomer did not dress as quickly as he usually would. The man was uncommonly slow this morning, and in the end the king lost his patience. He snatched the tunic out of Fastred's hands. "I do not like what I hear about this man," he repeated, ignoring Fastred for the moment. "But I guess that there is little we can do about it now. Tell the mayor that I will be down to speak with him shortly; I have to get dressed first, and pick out my best wares."

Ingold nodded and left. Éomer told the two youths to bring the firs into the larger room so they could find the best. Then he turned to Fastred.

"If you wish to state your displeasure, there are better ways than to draw out my dressing," he said. "I clad myself faster than that when I was five."

"I am sorry, my lord," Fastred said. "I am a scout, not a servant." There was the stance from last night: standing stiffly, staring past Éomer at some invisible point at the wall.

"I have never asked you to be," Éomer said. He sighed. "What gnaws at you, Fastred? You have been silent and sullen since last night."

"I am not sullen," said Fastred. "I am angry. You put yourself in danger where there is little need and you do not listen when I try to point out the troubles we face. Already you have committed to this rescue, even thought we might well walk straight into the Enemy's hands. And if that was not enough, you risk exposure to this Mayor, this Aduiar from the South. I have been here before, I have heard the whispers in the common room; he is half corsair on his father's side."

"You are not one that would judge a man on whispered rumours," Éomer frowned. "And you have not voiced such misgivings about the mayor before. For the most part I hear he is just enough for these times, and we have had dealings with him earlier, have we not?"

"Yes, but whether the rumours are true or not, no man would be given any position of power in Gondor unless he serves the Enemy. I do not like that he knows of our presence."

"That could not be helped," said Éomer.

"You did not have to send for him."

"I did." Éomer picked up his belt. "I did not think I would have to explain that to you, Fastred. That sentry, Gwidor, would have reported our coming as soon as he could. Far safer to follow his advice and send a message ourselves than wait for him to find us on his own. Even as it was, I fear I delayed too long. Gwidor suspects something. I do not like it, but I see no great danger since the mayor did not bring him. But why a guard at all, I wonder? No matter, we shall learn soon enough."

Éomer fastened his belt. He watched Fastred for a moment. The man was angry still, even knowing that his king was right. Or maybe it was because he knew, and could not change it.

"You will not like this," said Éomer. "But I will have to ask you to stay here."

Fastred met his eyes for the first time this morning.

"No." he said.

"I will make it an order if I have to," Éomer warned. "Yesterday at the gate our hoods were up. Today we cannot hide our hair and too many light heads will make that man put two and two together and guess who we are. He knows I am the leader, so I must speak with Aduiar – a huntsman would scarcely risk insulting the Mayor of the town and the only customer that might have some coin to pay. You and Cearl must remain out of sight."

"Your hair is hardly any darker than ours."

"True." Éomer nodded. "It will have to be remedied." He loosened the fastenings at the neck and walked back to the washbasin. "Hand me that towel; I would rather keep my clothes dry."

"What are you doing?" Fastred hissed as Éomer plunged his whole head into the basin.

"The colour will seem darker when wet," Húrin offered in way of explanation. He and Bergil had gathered the finest furs to take down, and now he stood in the doorway. "I am surprised he remembered that lesson. You," he told Fastred, "have forgotten that you should close the door if you do not wish your words to be overheard."

"'He' remembers more than a certain ranger might think," Éomer shot back. "The towel, Fastred. I have had enough wet clothes to last me a month." Water dripped from his face and hair. He wiped the drops from his eyes and wrung the water from his hair. Fastred held out the towel for his king to take.

"You really do mean to meet this, this half-blood collaborator?"

"I sent for him." Éomer covered his shoulders with the towel and shook his head like a dog. Water sprayed the walls and floor and anyone standing too close. He pressed water from his hair once more and let the towel soak up a little of the remaining dampness. A slow trickle still crept down the strains of hair, now almost dark, and seeped into the collar of his shirt, but it would have to do. He handed the towel back to Fastred. "Here. You should not have stood so close."

"You, sire, could have given warning."

"Fastred," Éomer changed his tone of voice. "We have been over this. Last night it was safer to remain here, but today I must act my part. I need to see the mayor; he is the only one that might be able to confirm or contest whether the Enemy will be in Minas Tirith for the celebrations."

"And you are going to do what?" Fastred said. "Ask him?"

Éomer strode past him, leaving Fastred alone in the room.

"Yes."

...

The mayor of Calembel's first thoughts upon hearing the greeting from the hunter had not been to show up with an escort. He had planned to bring his servant to carry home any purchase he might make, but no more. Then Gwidor had shown up.

"These men," he said. "These so-called hunters; they are hiding something."

"Gwidor," the mayor sighed. "Everyone hides something."

"They did not act as honest men," Gwidor continued as if the mayor had not spoken. "They kept their hoods up all the time."

The mayor stopped him before he could go on. Secrets are hardly the only reason that travelers have for keeping their hoods on in the rain, however many they may have. And as for those secrets they no doubt have, that is not uncommon; even you have some secret you hide."

"Lord mayor, I am most loyal to you," Gwidor said. "I hide no secret from you. I swear."

"Do not. I doubt you could without forswearing." The mayor would have dismissed him then, but the man kept on.

"I have other reasons to mistrust these men," he said. "They brought a young man, hardly more than a boy, with them. This boy I remembered. I had seen him before, in this very town. He came here the day before the hunters arrived, seeking work, or so he said. He left, and then returned in the company of the hunters. That looked mighty suspicious to me."

"Did you ask him why?"

"Yes."

The mayor waited for the man to continue, but when nothing more came, he prompted: "And what did he have to say for himself?"

"Nothing."

"Well," the mayor said, "that does sound a little more suspicious. Why did you let them in if they did not answer your question?"

"It would serve you better, I thought, to deliver these spies and rebels to the commander in Pelargir yourself, than to send them on their way to be caught by others." The man spoke quickly. He reminded the mayor of a play he had seen once about the Happless. The actors had spoken thus, swiftly and well-rehearsed, the words pouring out of their mouths and never reaching their hearts. It had been a very poor play.

"And mine was the only profit you thought of?" he said.

"Of course, my lord mayor."

"I do not believe you. However," the mayor added, cutting off the protest already bursting from the man's lips. "It does not matter. What you do say is cause for some concern, though I would like a little more proof to the claim that they are rebels and spies before I act. It reflects poorly on me if I have to release more men because they turn out innocent."

"Proof can always be obtained, lord," Gwidor said. "With the right means."

The mayor suddenly struck him with the back of his hand. The blow was hard enough to make him stagger back a few steps. Gwidor touched his cheek where the mayor's ring had hit him. Blood; it had cut skin.

"Do you imply that there is anything wrong with my methods?"

He shook his head. "My lord, I meant no such thing. You mistook my words; I would never presume to criticize anything you do."

"Then explain your words." The mayor turned away from the man. He was turning over the purse the hunter had sent him in his hand. There were two silver coins from Gondor in it, and one from Rohan. "Well?"

"I merely wished to say that I have already found out more about this band of hunters." Gwidor stumbled over his words in his haste. "Borondir seemed to know them, thought they acted as if they had never been here before, and I have asked around. The leader has not been here for some years, but two of his men were pretty well known, and that boy has been here several times before too. In the company of the men. I saw him and the one they called Húrin in the common room of the Traveller last night. They were talking to that servant-girl Ingold hired, and the boy seemed familiar enough with her. And this Húrin talked with several of the patrons as if they were old friends."

The mayor said nothing for a while. Before him, on the wall, there was a rendering of the Battle of the White City. His eyes trailed over the painting that the mayor before him had ordered, studying it.

It was a large painting with one central motive and around it, smaller images that showed the triumphs of the Great Lord; the defeat of the Armies of the West, the destruction of the evils of the Elves, the surrender of the Steward.

It was the central image that his eyes rested on.

The White City had been drawn in detail. The seven circles, the Citadel, the High Tower of Ecthelion, all in gleaming white against the dark mountain and the barren fields of Pelennor. No banners flew from the steeples and spires, and the Tower and the battlements were empty. Around the Gate a multitude of people were gathered, women, men and children with garlands in their hairs and flowers in their hands.

Aduiar's gaze lingered on the chief figures. Two men were painted so that the City and its people were small beside them. There, before the gate and surrounded by the happy people, stood the Lieutenant of Barad-dûr, Master of Isengard. Underneath his feet lay the white banner of the Stewards. In one hand, he held the standard of the King, in the other the Winged Crown, holding it over the head of a man kneeling beside him.

The man's head was bowed in gratitude. He was clad in black and silver; a white cloak was draped over his shoulder, and on his breast was a green stone. The mayor had never seen the King, but from what he had heard, he doubted he would have kneeled so meekly.

The king had both his hands lifted, open palms turned up and there lay the Key to the City, a free offering to the Protector of all Lands, East and West.

The Steward was nowhere to be seen.

"Gwidor," Aduiar said. "Come here. Tell me what you see."

The sentry did not move. "Lord mayor, I do not understand."

"This painting," he said. "What story does it tell?"

"It tells the story of how we came under the Great Lord's protection," Gwidor said without hesitation.

"And the central motive?"

"The end of the Stewards' rule and the crowning of the King." Same, unerring confidence.

"Does it tell the truth?" The mayor did not turn to look at the other man. He had not looked at him since he began his questioning.

"Of course, my lord."

"How do you know?"

"Lord?" Gwidor hesitated. "I do not understand. We all know it to be true; the lord mayor before you ordered it to be so."

"I see," Aduiar said. "Tell me, where is the King now?"

"He is the guest of the Great Lord." Gwidor sounded confused, but Aduiar just continued as if he did not hear it.

"And who now rules in the White City?"

"The lord Faramir."

"Yes," the mayor said. "The lord Steward." He let the silence rule once more. Gwidor stood there waiting, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

"Lord…" he began.

"This painting," the mayor cut him off. "This painting tells the truth. The truth as the Great Lord has told us. It does need to depicture the citadel hall where the coronation took place, or show us the lord Steward who was there to witness it. The servants of the Great Lord teach us to see beyond the truth of our senses and the literal truth of our records, to the deeper truths of the spirit.

"This image shows us the deeper truth through the falsehood of the literal."

"The Lord Mayor is wise," Gwidor said. "I understand."

"Do you?"

The mayor turned and speared Gwidor with his gaze. His eyes were dark and hard, sharp as a snake's. "The deeper truths are for paintings and teachings, Gwidor. Not for spies. You have served me well since you came, and those that sent you had only good things to say, but I know you hide secrets from me. Just now there are several things you have not said. I do not have to know what the truth is to hear a lie when it is uttered!"

"I have told no lie!"

The mayor struck him again.

"You did not tell the whole truth."

"I would ask you not to lift your hand to me again, lord mayor." The gash on Gwidor's cheek was deeper, and blood ran freely. "Those that sent me taught me to find the deeper truths hidden in the hearts of Men, and expose them. It would not be wise to anger me, lest I turn my gaze from lesser men."

Aduiar held his eyes for a moment before he smiled. It was a thin smile, with no mirth in it. He turned away, back to the painting.

"Your advice?" he asked. "I know you are dying to give it, or you would not have come." He gave his servant a quick gesture, and the servant bowed before bringing a small, fine cloth to Gwidor. The man pressed it to his wound.

"Gather what men you need and arrest them."

The mayor did not answer straight away.

"Your advice has some merit," he said at last. "But if these hunters are rebels and spies, as you think, we do not have enough men to arrest them all. There is no armed force in Calembel; this you know."

"The patrol is but a day gone," Gwidor said. "Alert them."

"Not unless I am certain. No," the mayor stopped Gwidor before he could speak again. "Do not seek to change my mind on this; I will speak with the hunters myself first. Get Borondir and meet me outside the inn. If my suspicion is roused, I will have you seize the master hunter. I will hold him until armed men can be sent for. His men cannot do much without him; that is how these rebels work.

"Go."

Gwidor bowed and left. He still held the cloth to his face to stop the bleeding. The mayor did not turn to see him go.

Aduiar was alone when his servant returned.

"He has left, Master Aduiar," he said. "And I have sent the boy to summon the scribe. The maid is out fetching water and the cook is in the kitchen; we are alone."

"Close the doors, Targon," Aduiar said. We have a few moments before we must leave."

The servant turned and checked the hallway one last time before he closed the doors. He stepped forward to stand a few steps behind the mayor. Aduiar had not moved since he dismissed Gwidor.

"Are you going to ask me about the painting too?" the servant asked when Aduiar did not speak.

"No," he said. "No; forgive me. I was lost in thought." He shook himself, as if ridding himself of some burden. He turned to face his servant. "What are your thoughts, Targon?"

"He is dangerous," Targon answered. "He only serves you for his own benefit, but this is not new; you have known that from the start. But now he grows impatient. He hoped, so is my guess, to impress his masters by uncovering some conspiracy here. He thought you weak, or blind, since there have been so few arrests here in the years you have ruled; that it would be easy to find rebels here, or those that could pass for them, and that you would be happy for him to find them, or else easily persuaded to his will. But six months have passed, and he has nothing to show.

"If you do not give him these hunters to deliver, he will turn on you, I deem. He will lie if he must, but you will be hard pressed to prove yourself against his accusations. He grows dangerous, and more so every day."

Aduiar sighed. "I had hoped to escape such politics here. Such a small town, far from the dealings of the great; it would be free of schemers, or so I thought, since none would want it.

"Well, Targon, I guess there is no escape within this world. Fetch my cloak, and alert me when the clerk comes. We will have to tread carefully; I cannot afford to leave Gwidor behind in such a mood. It could not have come at a worse time, and he must be taken care of, one way or another, before we leave for Minas Tirith."

"It will have to be soon then, master," the servant said. "You must leave within three days if you are to reach the City in time for the celebrations."

"And that I cannot afford." The mayor held out the purse the master hunter had sent. "Watch Gwidor," he said. "Be ready to act on any threat." The servant took the purse without a word, bowed and left.


	7. The Collaborator

Éomer led the way down the stairs and into the common room of the inn. Húrin and Bergil followed, their arms full of skins and pelts. 

Borondir was there, and a small, skinny little man – a clerk – who held on to his box of inks and papers as if he feared it would be taken away from him. By the fireplace the mayor of Calembel stood, and beside him a scarred man, his servant.

The fireplace was cold, for wood was scarce at the end of winter. No weapons, not even a wood-axe, were allowed without permission and woodcutting were far between. It had been the hope of the townspeople that the corsair soldiers would at least stay long enough for them to oversee the cutting of more wood, so that at least some good would come of their visit, but corsairs had little interest in the comfort of the people they taxed, and they had stayed no longer than needed. This day the sun shone through the windows and the heavy curtains – necessary to keep out the cold at night Ingold insisted – were pulled away to let her in, giving both some warmth and light.

There were no others in the room. Húrin picked a table near the windows for them to lie out the furs. All the tables were littered with the burnt-down stumps of crude candles, the tallow hardened in strange and fantastic shapes where it had pooled on the boards, and this was no exception, but it was better placed than the others. He tried to brush away the worst, but the tallow had fastened to the boards and could not be removed without a knife or some other tool. He guessed that was the reason the maid had not already done so. They would have to hope that none would stick to the furs.

He turned beck to the room, leaving it to Bergil to arrange the skins. Éomer had approached the mayor. He stood in a patch of sunlight falling in from one of the windows. There, in the sun, it was clear that his hair was lighter than that of the men of Gondor, despite his efforts to hide it. Húrin tensed, but made no other move when he saw that none of the other men seemed to notice, and Borondir was the only one standing between them and the door.

"Lord mayor," Éomer said in greeting. "I am Rodhaer, a humble hunter, and I am honoured that the mayor would view my wares. I beg forgives if the mayor has had to wait; I did not expect a call this early. I had taken the opportunity to bathe and wash when the innkeeper informed me of the lord mayor's arrival. Forgive my somewhat lacking appearance as well; there are but few times a man can get clean whilst hunting in the wild." He bowed, not quite managing to conceal the practiced manners taught him in his youth.

The mayor looked at Éomer for a moment. "Master Rodhaer," he said. "You seem to know me by look, if not by name."

"Lord mayor," said Éomer. "Your looks and your name are equally familiar to me."

"I do not recall that we have meet here before," said the mayor. "But perhaps you have been here, and seen me from afar."

"I have not," said Éomer, "but, pardon my bluntness – I am but a hunter unused to such fine company – I was told that the lord mayor was here in person, and none of the others could have been him. I confess that I trusted to my judgment rather than to wait and have my guess confirmed. You are the lord mayor?"

"I am," the mayor said. "Aduiar of Harondor is my name."

"At your service," Éomer said. "Can I interest you in some of our wares? We have selected only the finest for your viewing. What Húrin here does not know about furs, is not worth knowing. Let him show you what we have to offer." He gestured Húrin forward and left it to him to sort through the soft furs, and struggle to find something to say about it. Húrin did not gainsay him; he merely stepped forward, a bit stiffly, and began.

The mayor said little while Húrin showed him the skins, letting him feel how thick and warm the coats had been and how soft the leather had been worked. He listened only with one ear to the man's explanations on the difference in quality between martens and minks, how the fur of the wolverine would never freeze no matter how cold it would get, and whether the summer-coats or the winter-coats – the hunters had both – of wolves were to be preferred.

At last Húrin ran out of things to say. The mayor fingered one of the marten furs. It was softer than most he had felt; even the flesh-side had been worked until it was almost as soft as fine leather.

"Your wares are good," he said. "Better than I have seen in many years. I would have been less cold this winter, had you visited us before the snow."

"More winters will come," Éomer answered, taking over for Húrin. "And we can do little about the past, but to seek to amend it and prepare for the future. In truth, lord mayor, we could not have come earlier, though we wished it; most of these animals were caught just before the year turned, and the snow made it difficult to travel."

"You are right, and I will make sure to be prepared this year. Targon," the mayor called his servant closer. "I want you to choose some of the large, warm furs. Enough to line my winter-cloak; it was too cold this winter. And also pick out some of the finer minks or martens. It will not go amiss to bring some tokens of good will with us when we leave." He turned back to Éomer.

"Master Rodhaer, if we can leave the details to my clerk and your man, I would to speak a few words with you in private. So few travellers come to Calembel these days that I often forget my duties, but I must question you about your men, your trade and your travels, and make sure that all your papers are in order. It is a wearisome task, but it must be done."

"Of course," Éomer answered. He inclined his head and was about to speak again when they heard the sound of many boots outside. Through the window he could see that many men were gathering outside the inn. He counted at lest ten, all from the town he deemed, with no weapons save wooden staffs.

"Lord mayor," Éomer began. "Is there…" but at that moment the door to the common room swung open and Gwidor entered. He had two more men with him, but his entrance lost the impact he clearly wished for; he walked straight into Borondir who had moved to stand before the door as soon as he heard the noise.

"Move out of my way, you fool," Gwidor hissed.

"You are late, Gwidor," the mayor said. He seemed unconcerned, as if Gwidor had merely been late for supper and would now have to eat it cold. "We were about to finish here."

Gwidor stepped around Borondir.

"My Lord Mayor," he said. "I have reason to believe that this man, the hunter who calls himself Rodhaer, is not who he claims to be, and that he and his men has come here to spy. That they conspire against you, against Gondor and against the Great Lord who protect us all, may his mercy never end."

"You are late." The mayor said nothing on the charges made. His voice and face showed no sign that he had heard Gwidor's accusations, nor that he had noticed how Bergil and Húrin tensed and Borondir changed his grip on his staff and shifted his weight. The clerk had withdrawn behind one of the sturdy tables, guarding his treasure of inks and quills. Éomer looked relaxed, but his stance, too, shifted.

"My Lord, I have good reason for my suspicions," Gwidor said, ignoring the mayor's reprimand. "I now have proof. Solid, tangible proof." He looked at Éomer and smiled. "I have sharper eyes than you have thought, master hunter, and sharper ears as well. Did you think you could hide the colour of your hair? Or your strange manner of speech? You are not from Gondor, and all travel between Rohan and Gondor is forbidden."

"Not all travel," Éomer answered, "but that is not our concern. It is true that I have family in Rohan. My father was born in the Eastfold, but from my mother I have family in Lossarnach as well. I was but a boy when my father was killed, and my mother died. My mother's brother raised me. The colour of my hair comes from my father's kin.

As for my speech," he continued, "I know that my manner is not often heard here, but I have never been able to mimic the speech of the south. The speech of Minas Tirith was used in my uncle's house, and I have never been able to change what I learned in my youth."

"Gwidor," the mayor said. "You are late. This is the solid proof you have? Too many times this winter have you given groundless accusations, and I tire of the work you put me through for each innocent man I have to release. You know it is a far greater hassle to release a man than to apprehend him, and it is I that must do it. Off course we can detain master Rodhaer now, until his story is confirmed, but I do not wish to begin an investigation that will most likely prove fruitless now, so close to the celebrations. I do not have the time. Since all your other suspicions have been groundless until now, I think I will do as I had planned and simply speak with him here and see his papers."

"My Lord Mayor." Gwidor made a show of bowing to the mayor. "I humbly ask forgives for my tardiness, but if you will hear me, you will see why I was late, and that my suspicions are built on more substantial evidence than hair-colour or a slight accent."

"If accent it can be called." The mayor's voice was low. "Very well," he continued in a stronger voice. "I will hear you. But you have probably ruined all my chances of getting a good deal out of these men."

Neither Éomer nor Húrin liked the surety they heard in Gwidor's voice, but while Húrin had wished that Fastred and Cearl were with them, Éomer was glad they were not; Fastred would probably have made the situation worse, and Cearl… Cearl was young, and though he had seen more than Éomer had at his age, there was no guessing what he might do; Éomer did not know him well enough to know. He signed to Húrin to be silent and wait until Gwidor had produced his proofs. Whatever that might be.

"Lord Mayor," Gwidor began. "Let me first tell you that I spent all of last evening talking to the people of this town, but they could tell me nothing of these hunters. That, and the fact that the boy there came to Calembel a day early, claiming to seek work and then appeared in the company of these men, roused my suspicion. But, as I know you are most fair and would never judge a man without clear proof, I knew I had to prove this suspicion right before any action could be taken. Having only your best interest in mind, for it would reflect poorly on you, lord mayor, should a spy and conspirator escape me while in your service, I took it on myself to find such proof. As early as I could, I therefore entered the stable of the inn to see if I could learn more from examining their horses and their tack. And I did." He paused a moment before he continued.

"Their horses are of far better stock than men of their trade can afford, despite their scruffy looks. Master Rodhaer's horse in particular is better than most I have seen, though a little thin after the winter. It would not let me close enough to determine for certain, but I would be surprised if it is not of Rohirric stock."

"He is also old," Éomer said before Gwidor could speak further. "I have had him since before the triumph of Barad-dûr. That I still have the same horse, so many years later, should speak for the income of my trade."

The mayor spoke before Gwidor could answer that. "These proofs you cite are not enough for me to risk being delayed, Gwidor. If you provide sufficient proof that I can bring this man with me for judgement, that will be a different matter, but the colour of his hair and the breeding of an old horse are not."

"Lord Mayor, I have more," Gwidor said. "I did not want to reveal it here, but rather save it for the interrogation later so that he would have no time to think up a lie, but since you wish to know it now, then know that my search of the stables revealed, in one of the saddle-bags they had left behind, a most damming evidence. The law that forbids the bearing of arms has no exceptions save for the soldiers appointed by the lord Steward at the word of the King and the pleasure of the Great Lord. These hunters are not soldiers, yet I found this!" His words were laced with triumph as he held up a dagger.

If Éomer had given a sign, any sign, he would have had at least three men fighting with him, and the noise would have brought Fastred and Cearl down soon enough. But he gave no sign and said no word, and Húrin laid a hand on Bergil's arm warning him to wait; the men outside had them outnumbered.

And if Gwidor had expected some reaction from Éomer at this revelation, he did not let his disappointment show. He slowly presented the dagger to the mayor, studying Éomer's reactions. Therefore he missed the sign the mayor gave his servant, neither did he see the servant easing himself back on the soles of his feet, as if he had stopped himself from jumping forward.

"You will see, my lord," Gwidor said, "that this dagger not only condemns the hunter with its very existence. It is of Rohirric make, and far to new for it to be an heirloom from his father. Moreover, I found beside it this broche. It has the shape of a star, the sign used by the rebel Dúnedain in the North. Are not these indisputable proof?"

"They do make a strong case," the mayor said. "And you found them in Master Rodhaer's saddle-bags?"

"He did," Éomer said before anyone else could speak. "We found them in the forest, on a dead orc."

"Killed, no doubt, by you," Gwidor said.

"No," said Éomer. "One of its own did the killing; it was stabbed in the belly by an orc-knife. The wound was unmistakeble."

Húrin stepped closer to the king. "We might be able to hold them of long enough for help to arrive," he whispered. "Or long enough for you to escape if you can get to the stable. The men outside are not armed, and some of them would be on our side. As would at least one inside."

Éomer made a small gesture with his hand, barely noticeable to anyone else: _no!_ He would not have them risk it.

"This is most unfortunate," the mayor said. "The evidence is too grave to ignore, even if it should turn out that your story is confirmed, Master Rodhaer. I have not choice but to ask you to come with us."

"And his men," Gwidor said. "They surely are part of it too."

"None of my men are involved in any way," Éomer said. "And they will stay here at the inn. You can be assured that they will not leave without me, lord mayor. Let me just have a word with Húrin here before we go."

The mayor nodded. "If that is all it will take to have Master Rodhaer's cooperation," he cut Gwidor's protest off, "then I see little harm in it, and much benefit. I do so hate too much fuss."

Éomer turned and dragged Húrin with him further into the room. Bergil followed, keeping himself between Éomer and the other men.

"The men at the door will be easily taken out," Húrin said. His voice was low, hardly sound at all. "Beregond will take care of at least one. The clerk has already gone into hiding, and Gwidor strikes me as a coward that can be taken down without much trouble. The mayor might be tougher, and he has the dagger, but I would be able to hold him off at need. The servant…"

"I want you to keep Fastred from doing anything stupid," Éomer cut him off. "You two will go to our rooms and keep both him and Cearl there. If you do not hear from me before nightfall, I want at least one of you to meet up with the others. Coordinate with Ingold and be prepared to leave for Minas Tirith with as many men that can be spared. Wait for me at the edge of the forest east of the town; I will meet you there sometime tomorrow if not sooner."

"Éomer king," Húrin hissed. "You can not…"

"I have not had the chance to get the information we need," Éomer said. "The mayor will know."

"Fastred will kill me if I let you go."

"Trust me," Éomer said. "I am in less danger in the mayor's keeping than you are if we resist. Gwidor has gathered too many men, and neither the mayor nor his servant is to be taken lightly in a fight. I do not need you to keep me company in a cell. Gwidor has set his eye on me, and will be satisfied with my arrest."

"And _that_ is to ensure me that you will be safe?" Húrin shock his head. But Éomer's reasoning was sound enough; better one than all. He nodded. "And if you are not there to meet us?" he asked.

"I will be. One way or another, I will be there." Éomer's voice was low and intense. "This is not the time or place to explain. Remember what you told your men, and trust me. All will be well."

Húrin could only hope the king was right. And that neither Cearl nor Fastred would look out of the windows and see Éomer being taken away.

…

Borondir stayed close to Éomer on the walk back through the town. Targon, the servant, had, somehow and for some reason, claimed the place at Éomer's left hand, and so Borondir could not risk talking to him, as he had hoped. The mayor and Gwidor walked ahead. The mayor had taken hold of Gwidor, forcing him to walk in front with him, and they were now talking, but only snatches of the conversation drifted back and Borondir could make nothing of it. Nor could he read anything from Éomer's face.

Whether by design or by chance, Gwidor had struck at the time when the people of Calembel began their day. The streets began to fill with men heading out to the fields, the older boys by their side, shovels and small tilling-tools slung over their shoulders. The women would follow later, bringing their baskets of food for the midday meal and the smaller children; old enough to help pick the stones form the fields, too young to do much else. Borondir would have been with them, should have been with them, as should the other men Gwidor had brought. All hands that could be spared were needed to ready the fields for the crops.

The men turned away, avoiding Gwidor and the mayor. A few meet Borondir's eyes, their unspoken questions unanswered. Borondir did not know what they should do, what they _could_ do, and the king had not given him any sign. Unless ordering his men to stand down was one. Borondir hoped he would be able to speak with Éomer before he was dismissed. Then he would confer with Húrin and Ingold. And Fastred, thought he could guess what Fastred would say.

 _Curse it all, king Éomer,_ he thought. _I warned you about Gwidor. One king at the Enemy's mercy is enough!_

The walk was not long. Éomer had been there once before, three years ago, in the servants' quarters. This time he was taken to the old barracks. Underneath what had once been the mess hall of the soldiers there were five large cells. Each was large enough to hold seven men with ease, and more if needed. Bars kept the prisoners apart, but nothing else separated the cells; these cells were not intended for those that were to be held for a long time.

Éomer was put in the first cell. The dust on the floor was not as thick as in the others and there was straw, reasonably fresh, in one of the mattresses. _Was it two or three men that had been arrested this winter?_ Éomer could not recall. The door shut behind him and he could hear the key turn in the lock. He turned around.

"The mayor will send for you shortly," the servant said. He put the key in his pocket. "Your duty is done, Borondir. You may join the men in the fields," he added when Borondir gave no sign to leave. "I know all hands are needed that can be spared."

"And I can be spared here? I am not needed to guard… him?" Borondir asked. He could not bring himself to say the word 'prisoner'. "I'd rather not displease the mayor by leaving while he still have need of me."

"Master Rodhaer is quite secure," the servant answered. "The door is locked and I will bring the key to my master; there is no need for you to remain."

Éomer had remained silent so far, but now he spoke. "Targon, may I ask a favour? I had so little time earlier and there was something I forgot to speak with my men about. If Borondir here is leaving, perhaps, if he is willing, he could deliver a message for me?"

"Do you think it wise, master Rodhaer?" Targon returned. "I think it will be better to wait until you have spoken further with the mayor. A message now may cause both the good Borondir – and your men – trouble."

"I am sure I will be fine," Borondir hurried to say before Targon could say more. "It will not delay me much more from the work in the fields than I already am."

"I do not think that was what the good servant meant," Éomer said. A ghost of a smile played on his lips. "I would not want to incriminate you, though all I wanted was to remind my men that my horse needs to be shod. Since it looks as if I might stay here a little longer than I had planned, they can as well get it done while they wait. If you would be so kind as to remind them? I fear they will forget. But tell them to make sure it is done properly – I do not wish him lame because some oaf hammered a nail wrong!" He looked at Targon. "Too sinister?"

Borondir was startled to hear Targon laugh softly in reply.

"I doubt even Gwidor suspect the bringer of that message, though it does speak against you; who but one of the Rohirrim would worry for their horse when charged with rebellion and spying?" The scar made it harder to interpret his expression than it should have been, but Borondir did not like his words or the tone of his voice. It was as if the servant knew more than he should.

"Deliver the message if you will," Targon told him, and it was clear to Borondir that he would not get a chance to talk with Éomer alone. He turned to leave with the servant, and did not dare to turn back when Éomer called after them:

"Others besides the Eorlingas care for their horses when their livelihood as well as their lives depend on them."

Targon turned to reply: "True, but I am not the one you need to convince."

And with that they climbed the stairs and left Éomer alone.

…

The men Gwidor had brought had all left for the fields when Borondir came back out. He debated whether he should change out of the uniform he wore when guarding, or to go straight back to the inn and change after he had spoken with Ingold and Éomer's men. In the end he decided against the later. Éomer had given him an excuse to call back on the men, but the servant's comments had made it clear that it would be dangerous to seem too eager. Better to ready himself for work first. Since they all, as far as he could tell, had been dismissed, Húrin had been able to keep Fastred from doing something rash, like storming the mayor's house. Borondir could afford a small delay.

His house was close by. It was one of the few houses of stone still left standing in Calembel. When the Mayor's Manor – as it was called – had been built, many houses had been torn down and the stone used for the new building. They had built new houses in wood to replace those torn down, since that was quicker and simpler, and because stone was hard to come by after the War. It had taken most of the old houses to supply the Manor, and now most of the buildings in Calembel were wooden. Borondir had been given the house when the mayor had picked him as his preferred guard since it was close to the Manor. His wife had been more pleased than he, but it was good for the Faithful to have one of their own so close to the mayor, and the house was large enough that he could hide refugees there at need.

His wife was in the kitchen when he came home. She was stirring a pot, the fire beneath it too small for it to heat enough to boil.

"Wife, what are you making?"

She turned. "Husband. I did not hear you come; I thought you were in the fields with the other men."

"The mayor needed me," he said. "And it took longer than planned. Gwidor has set his eye on the hunters."

"At least that might turn his eyes from the town," she said. She turned back to her pot. "I do not know why he came here; he is too ambitious by far. All winter he has tried to make some big catch that will let him advance. These hunters are strangers; perhaps it is better this way."

"Better! You cannot mean that." Borondir could not believe it. This was the woman he had married? The woman that had worked as hard as him keeping the Faithful safe?

"He may soon turn his eyes to you!" She spun to face him. She held the ladle still in her hand, pointing it at him. A few specks of gruel hit his cheek. "Then what shall I do? There would be none to help you and speak for you as you have done in the past. He will take you to those that do not care who is guilty or not; being accused is enough. And you will just disappear, and I would be lucky to get your body back to burry."

"Wife, I am safer than you," he said. "The mayor will not be happy to lose me and he trusts me over Gwidor."

"That may quickly change."

Borondir had not known her fear ran so deep. He wanted to reassure her, but she was more right than she knew.

"Adulas," he said. "You are right to think Gwidor a threat, but you know the risks I sometimes must take; you take them with me."

"Yes," she said. "But things change, and the risk is higher since he came. Take care, Borondir. I can not lose you now."

"You might have to," he said. He hesitated to say more, but how could she understand unless he told her? "I may have to risk more now than I ever had. The hunters…"

"You will not let Gwidor use them to further his ambitions," she cut him off. She turned away from him, back to the gruel. She looked smaller, and more tired than he had ever seen her. "You are too good a man. I knew that when I married you. You would not sacrifice strangers to keep yourself safe. But have you considered that the Faithful may need you, even if my need weighs too little for you?"

"Listen, wife. You do not know of what you speak." Borondir stepped close enough for him to lower his voice. "It is not just any stranger that Gwidor have set his eye on. He suspects that they are not all what they appear to be, but even his suspicions cannot guess the truth. These men are not strangers; I know them, or most. They come from Fangorn, Adulas, and their leader will give Gwidor more than he had ever hoped to gain." His voice sank to a whisper.

"One captured king is enough."

She stopped her stirring. He could not see her face, but her body had frozen. He laid his hand on her arm and slowly turned her. She let him. She looked past him, avoiding his eyes, and he gently tipped her face up to his.

"Look at me," he said. "Look at me. You did not know. You are my wife and I should have told you, but as you want me safe, I want you. I thought it better that you did not know. I thought there was no need. That has changed, and we may both have to risk more than we have in years."

She laughed, but it was a bitter laugh. "And we can ill afford any risk now. It never rains, but it pours." She met his eyes. "I, too, have kept secrets, husband. But now I must tell as well; I am with child."

He closed his eyes. Her skin was soft beneath his fingers and he could smell the smoke on her clothes and the fading smell of the bread she baked the day before in her hair. He curled his hands in the air beside her face, careful not the touch her lest he harmed her. He could not find the words to speak.

"I do not tell you this to make you change your ways," he heard her say. "If we must do without you, then know that I will tell this child of what his father wrought, and teach him to be as good and brave as the man I loved."

He opened his eyes. "And if it be a girl?"

She smiled. "Then I will do the same. And I will see her married to a man as brave and good as is her father." She hugged him and held him close. "I know what you must do," she said. "We cannot let Gwidor and the mayor take the king, and if you can, you must help free him. Even if we lose everything here. Even if I lose you. I will find a way for me and our child."

"If the worst should happen," Borondir said, "then leave with Éomer and his men. They will care for you and protect you, and our child will know a better life than it will here.

"But nothing is certain. Éomer did not resist arrest, and none know his true name yet that did not already know. The mayor have never condemned a man before; he may yet be convinced that Éomer is nothing but a hunter. I will not act yet, and if I must, I will not be alone."

She nodded to his words. "If you plan to wait, then get changed and get yourself out in the fields with the rest. The town will need food, whatever the outcome be."

"I will," he said. "But I must speak with Húrin and Ingold before I leave; they need to know where he is held, and they will know better what must be done."

"Then go," she said. "I will bring you food at midday with the rest, if I can make enough heat in this pot to cook your gruel."

"Gruel," he said. "It is always gruel."

"And it will be gruel until you catch me something else to put in the pot."

He kissed her. "One day I will." And he went to change.

…

Bergil was not often glad to be one of the youngest men among the rangers, but he was now. The only reason that Fastred had not gone after the men that took Éomer away, was that Húrin had blocked the stairs when he came running. Fastred was not pleased.

"How could you let them take him?"

"Idid not _let_ them take him anywhere," Húrin answered. " _He_ did. He ordered me not to do anything, and to keep you from doing anything rash. There were too many men, and only a few of them we could be sure of helping us."

"We would have come. It would have been enough for him to escape."

"He would not let us. Did you not hear what I said? King Éomer ordered us not to act. And that order was for you and Cearl as well, Fastred. He wants us to wait until nightfall before we do anything. He seemed to think that he would be able to get a message to us before that."

"I wonder if you would be so willing to obey if he had been your king."

Fastred was so angry that he did not consider his words, nor did he foresee Húrin's reaction. He found himself pinned to the wall with Húrin's forearm holding him in place, pressing on his throat.

"Do not speak of him," Húrin hissed. "You, who have not even wanted to see if there can be a chance to rescue him. Perhaps now you will know why we would, that knew him."

"That gives you no right to sacrifice Éomer king for the slim chance that you may have a chance," Fastred returned.

Húrin let him go. "I have not," he said, and his voice had lost much of the anger. "I would not. I was ready to fight that he could escape, even though he would be the only one. Even though it would mean that there would be none to attempt to rescue the Chieftain. But I know that Éomer wishes to rescue him too. I can only trust to that, and that he knows what he is doing."

"I know he wishes to free the lord Aragorn," Fastred said, "and that is why I fear. I fear the king will risk too much. Tell me; would it do much good to gain one king if we lose another? Is he worth that much more?"

Húrin wanted to answer _yes! That and more_ , but he could not. Ten years ago he would; even five years ago he might have thought it, and perhaps even said so, abet not as blunt, but now, now he could not. He began to speak, but Fastred did not hear. He cut him off, speaking on about his own fears.

"Éomer king thinks so. I know he does. And now he will throw his life away. Fool. Stupid, honourable fool; he still thinks too little of his worth, takes too many risks, and he has not even been willing to take a wife. If not for the lady Éowyn…"

"Fastred!"

Húrin did not touch him again, but the call stopped Fastred mid-rant. Cearl was staring at him, frightened and unsure what to do, and Bergil… Bergil had snuck from the room, trying, no doubt, to escape the scene he was making.

"What are you talking about?" Húrin asked. "King Éomer is wise enough, or at least have grown so, to know that he can not take too many risks. Do I have more faith in the lord of the Mark than one of his own people?

"Besides," he continued, "he knows that we will not be able to rescue _him_ , if he is not there."

"What?"

"We will have little hope of rescuing the Chieftain unless Éomer leads us," Húrin said. "We need more than five Dúnedain, and the Faithful here and in Minas Tirith knows him, or of him. I am known. Or, at least I am to those in Minas Tirith, and we will need their help. Just knowing king Éomer has come will raise their hearts and give them the will to try. You heard Ingold."

Fastred nodded. He had heard Ingold. He just wished he had not, that he had not understood the feeling so well, that he could just take his king with him back where is was safer.

"Húrin," he said. "Listen to me. You heard what I told that the orc in Fangorn said; there is some plot, some plan, to lure Éomer king to Minas Tirith."

"You don't know that. What if the orc tried to say _tark-king_? It might have heard of the plans for the celebrations."

Húrin was right. Of course he was, but Fastred could not get the image of the shrunken, dead youth from his dreams out of his head whenever any of them spoke of Mundbrug. "My heart fears that the king is in more danger than any of you think, if he goes to the City of Stone," he said, more to himself than Húrin. Húrin heard him anyway.

"Are all the Rohirrim gifted with foresight suddenly?" he asked. "I had thought that was the gift of my people. First Éomer, now you?"

"It is no matter for jests!"

"You have been on edge since we left Fangorn," Húrin said, "but it has grown worse these last days. What is this fear? What does your heart tell?"

Fastred waved him off. "Nothing," he said. "My dreams have been dark, nothing more."

"Dreams can speak of many things. We long since learned to listen to ours."

But Fastred just shook his head. He was not ready to voice the fears of his dream, lest they would turn real with the speaking. Húrin did not press him further, but neither would he let him leave the room.

"He took my place," Fastred said instead. It was easier to voice this guilt than the fear of dreams. "I was the one to forget the knife in my saddle-bag, though I could have sworn I had not."

Húrin had no answer for him.

Outside the sun climbed the sky, hot with the first warmth of spring. She tracked the time, moving slowly across the floor of their room. Fastred paced between the window of the inner room and the table in the inner, waiting for something to happen. He turned from the table and walked back to the window once more. Below the street was empty. It was a small street, hardly more than an ally. The houses across stood close together, were small and low. Still the ally was so narrow that the sun did not reach all the way down to the dirt. The ground was hard-packed and dark like still-damp clay and not even weeds grew there. On one side a small trickle of dirty water made the ally unsavoury to use. The men Gwidor had brought had come another way, and the room had no widow facing the square outside the inn.

He turned again. Húrin sat at the end of the table, the chair drawn back so that he could keep an eye on both the door and Fastred. Other than that, the room was empty.

"Where are the lads?"

"They cleared out, clever little buggers," Húrin answered. "I am not quite sure when Bergil left, but Cearl I sent to the stables while you was brooding. He looked as if he was scared half out of his wits, and the way we were going on my only surprise is that he was not scared all the way. We need to make sure nothing else has been left there to incriminate us further, and he needed the comfort of his horse."

"You have learned something of us then," Fastred said. "Though why you say 'we', I don't know."

"I admit that you were more to blame than me…"

"I would be perfectly calm if you had not allowed my king to be taken prisoner! And why, pray, would you let Cearl out and not me?"

"If I could be certain that you would not go off – alone – to free Éomer the minute I let you out of my sight, I would."

Húrin sounded much too calm in Fastred's mind. The Ranger had not moved, but he was ready to stand at a moment's notice. It was not Fastred, however, that brought him to his feet a moment later. It was the sound of footsteps in the hall outside. Three or four people, they guessed. No words were needed; Húrin was by the door before it opened.

It was Bergil and Cearl, with Ingold and Borondir close behind.

Borondir quickly explained what had happened at the Manor, and how Éomer had provided him with an excuse to report back to them. It did somewhat ease their minds that the king seemed to be in no immediate danger, thought nothing had really changed and Borondir could shed no further light on why Éomer would put himself in danger that way. They decided to wait, as Éomer had ordered, until evening for more news. Borondir would try to get a word with Éomer after the work was over, in the meanwhile Bergil would keep an eye on the barracks. Ingold would seek information too. The remaining men would have to wait.

"What was the message Éomer king sent?" Fastred asked. Borondir had risen to leave; he was already late for the fields.

"That is of little consequence," Borondir answered. "It was but an excuse for me to speak with you."

"Fastred is right," Húrin said. "He might have tried to give us some hidden message in his words, and even if he has not, we should know it in case we are asked."

"I did not think of that." Borondir scratched his head. He used both hands, one behind each ear, scratching up and down the back of his head with short, fast movements; a sure sign that he was unsure. "He said to remember to shoe his horse, and take care lest it become lame from careless work. I do not know if this is some code you use; to me it did not mean much."

"I'll see it done," Fastred said. "On all the horses. If we need to flee, it would be better that they all were shod so that we don't risk soreness."

"I will let the blacksmith know," Ingold said. A Rider would know their horses' care best, though he could not quite see why Éomer would think it important to get the horses shod. Nor that Fastred should care about it when his king was imprisoned. But Húrin nodded, and that was enough. Both left, and Bergil followed shortly. It was already near midday, and they did not know what they should do. Or what Éomer king planned.


	8. Things Fall Apart

The mayor of Calembel sat behind a large desk. It was his desk, one of the few things he had ordered himself. Most of the furniture had once belonged to his predecessor, left behind when he moved to become magistrate of Linhir. Or perhaps it was the one before. _That_ one had died, suddenly and unexpectedly, not even a year after the last War. The Haradrim soldiers had never found out why; he had held the office a good two years, and he was not old. Not old as the Men of Gondor counted. But the soldiers had not tried all that hard.

The townspeople had their own opinions of why he died. Un-usefulness, they said. It happened often in the early years when there were still many who had been appointed by the old Steward. A few stayed useful, but most died, or were exposed as rebels.  Appointments were handled… differently now. The next Mayor had been far more useful than the first, to the soldiers if not the town. When trade had slowed almost completely and the roads became empty, he had proved himself far too useful to squander in such a small town. He had taken with him what furniture he had wanted, but the rest was left behind. Aduiar had not felt the need to replace it, nor had he needed to purchase much new. But the desk, the desk had been another matter.

Dark, reddish wood– strong and hard– had been combined with inlays of light, soft birch to form endless geometrical patterns. Lines and triangles formed intricate labyrinths that confused the eye and hid secret compartments and drawers. Push one knot, and a panel would open to reveal a hidden keyhole. Press on one line, and nothing would happen, but the next might reveal a compartment with a small knife or the hiding-place of some other, secret thing. Not even the carpenter who made it could remember all its secrets. Aduiar knew them all.

Gwidor was standing on the other side of the desk. Unlike the room where they had spoken earlier, this room had no paintings. A few maps covered what little space was left from the shelves of papers and books; this was a room for work. A few chairs stood empty on his side of the desk, but Gwidor had declined the offer of a seat. He was impatient to begin the questioning of the prisoner. He harboured some secret, and once he found it, Gwidor would finally be free of this town and its master. So far it had been nothing but disappointments. He could not make up his mind as to whether the mayor was lazy, stupid, or treacherous. All the other masters he had served had encouraged his initiatives and appreciated his ability to find rebels and conspiracies. This man treated every case as a nuisance, an attitude the Masters would find most… interesting. Perhaps even worthy of an investigation.

“So, Gwidor,” the mayor said. “Are you satisfied with the turn of events?”

“Lord mayor?”

“You are smiling, Gwidor.” The mayor was watching him. He fingered the dagger Gwidor had found, letting it turn and swirl in his hands with far more skill than Gwidor would have guessed him capable of.

“Neither of us has spoken since we entered this room,” he continued, “and nothing in this room invites mirth, I must therefore conclude that your smile comes from your satisfaction with this morning’s events.”

 _You conclude that_ , Gwidor thought. What he said was: “My lord, I seek only your gain. The arrest of this man posing as a hunter will reflect well on you.”

Aduiar did not answer. He appeared deep in thought. He stopped his juggling and studied the dagger instead. The blade was as long as his hand, straight and double-edged. It had a short, blunt guard with horse-heads at the ends. The pommel was in the same style, but small, and the grip was simple: wood draped with leather. The blade itself was decorated with a flowing, snakelike pattern. In the engraving there were still traces of blood that had not been cleaned off.

“What did you think of his story?” the mayor asked.

It took Gwidor a few moments to understand the mayor’s question. “My lord, I do not think any of his explanations are to be trusted.”

“If you study this dagger,” Aduiar said, “you will see that there is one thing that supports his claim that it was found with an orc.” He took a piece of cloth lying on the desk and spit on it before he rubbed the dagger with it. He showed the cloth to Gwidor.

“There is still blood stuck in the engraving,” he said, “and it has begun to rust. A hunter would care for his weapons, would not allow this neglect, but orcs seldom bother.”

“But he is no hunter,” Gwidor countered. “He is a spy and rebel.”

“They too would clean their blades better.”

“Perhaps,” Gwidor had to admit. He could see why Aduiar was still stuck with such an insignificant town; how could he find rebels when he made excuses for the suspects? Their job was not to make up impossible stories to advocate the suspects’ innocence; it was to rout out rebels and spies!

“This whole business is a terrible nuisance right now.” The mayor interrupted his thoughts. “Next time, could you try to find spies at a more opportune moment? I have to leave for Minas Tirith in just a few days– tomorrow preferably– and there will likely not be time to check the story in much depth before I leave. It does not reflect favourably on me to be late for the celebrations, or to leave a query like this unresolved. Yet you have put me in a position where I must do one, it seems.”

Gwidor did not let the opening pass him by. “Leave it to me, my lord mayor. I can question the hunters and examine whether their stories hold.”

The mayor shook his head. “It is my responsibility.”

“You can authorize whom you please,” Gwidor said. “If you will but let me question him, I am certain that I can get the truth out of him before you must leave.”

“I might,” the mayor said, “and, mark you, only _might_ , consider leaving it to you if nothing is resolved by tomorrow. But though I do not question your ability to make people give the answers you seek, I am not convinced that you will always recognize the truth when you hear it. I will handle the first questioning. Alone. I find that most people speak more freely when I speak with them alone.”

Gwidor tried to argue his case further, but the mayor would not be swayed. The more Gwidor spoke, the more reluctant the mayor seemed to grow. The more Gwidor tried to convince Aduiar to let him take care of the questioning, the more adamant did the mayor become in his decision to handle it himself. At the end of their conversation Gwidor had worked himself into quite an irritable state. But he was careful not to show it. The mayor was still more powerful than him here, and he would not risk crossing him. Not now. Not when he was closer than ever to a catch that would ensure his promotion. Let the mayor dig his own grave with this prisoner. But until the grave was done, Gwidor could not afford to show his displeasure openly. He rubbed the cut on his cheek.

Aduiar, on the other hand, _could_ show his displeasure without any immediate consequences, as he had demonstrated earlier. And he did. Sitting in his chair fingering, ever fingering, the dagger while Gwidor talked, intercepting him with ever more biting remarks. Dismissing– or was he mocking? – Gwidor’s findings with every turn of that knife. With every word he said.

And then he _did_ dismiss him. Told him that if Gwidor could not find anything better to do, then he was free to join the rest of the town in the field. That he had no more use for him at the moment and would send for him if needed. As if Gwidor did not have better things to do than to play farmer!

“Borondir will know what tasks are most urgent,” Aduiar said. “I suspect the children could always use some help picking stones from the fields before the ploughing.”

Gwidor bowed and left. It was all he could do not to lose his composure. The door closed behind him.

Aduiar laid the dagger carefully down on the desk. He sat unmoving for a moment, looking at it. The room was silent. No sounds penetrated the walls and the thick door; even the window, large and high on the wall behind him, shut out the birds’ song. If any were out. It did not even let any sunlight in this early; it faced west, towards the mountains.

Two other items lay on the desk. Aduiar picked up one: the star-brooch. Gwidor had made much of the dagger. Why, when the brooch was far more damning? He had to know that only the hidden Dúnedain from the North used these, they who had never been conquered, because they could not be found. The Northern Dúnedain from whom the king Elessar had come. Aduiar had never been able to fathom why the king had proved to be a most effective hostage against Gondor, yet his own people seemed unaffected in their resistance. He turned the star slowly in his hand. It gave him no answer.

The star, like the dagger, was tarnished, but the craftsmanship was good. Aduiar picked up the cloth and began to wipe off the worst of the filth gathered on it. He could well believe that it had been carried around by an orc; the story might be true. Aduiar found himself hoping it was. Still, Gwidor had a point. More than one, though Aduiar was reluctant to admit it. Just the dagger or the star would be damning, and Gwidor did not even know about the coin.

There was a knock at the door. _Rap-tap-tap_ , a pause, and then _rap-a-tap-tap_.

“Come.”

It was Targon. Aduiar looked up at him and gestured towards the door. Targon closed it.

“He is secure for now,” he said.

“Did you set any guards?”

“No. I did not trust any to do it.” Targon came to stand before the mayor, where Gwidor had been standing earlier. Somehow the scar became more prominent in the light that fell down on him from the window.

“Borondir would have been my first choice, but …”

Aduiar agreed. Borondir would not do. Not this time.

“How did you secure him?” he asked.

“He is in the first cell,” Targon answered. “It was the cleanest. And I have the keys. He should be safe for now.”

“Gwidor is determined to have his catch this time. He argued about the questioning; he has never opposed me so before. I must admit that it displeased me. I sent him to help in the fields, but I fear it was a mistake. The patrol is but two days gone, and he is angry.”

“I will follow him,” Targon said. “He will accuse you as well, if he goes to fetch them without your order. It is the only way he will get away with crossing you. Shall I send word to Borondir that you need him?”

Aduiar considered it, but shook his head. “It will not be necessary. I have the other set of keys, and I need no guard.”

…

Gwidor was not one to take risks. Most people would be surprised to hear that; the impression he gave the world was that of a man of action. One driven by ambition, and none had ever risen high in the world without taking risks. And Gwidor _would_ act. Would push and bully and coerce to get his way.

But only those he could safely push. Only those that would not strike back against him.

He preferred to flatter his masters, find out what they wanted and give them that. He found early on that all his masters desperately wanted to reveal the plots and rebels that could be hiding underneath their eyes. Sniffing them out made them happy, and Gwidor had learned that it was safer to be the accuser than the accused.

In Calembel, he realized, it was not so. He had misjudged, and now there was nothing he could do that would not put him in danger. He had angered the mayor.

And the mayor had angered him.

On the way out the door, he met the servant and pushed past him, too angry to bother with words. He had no clear thought of where he would go, only the need to get away before his anger made him do something he would regret. The mayor had too much power here; he would need to tread carefully.

Outside he paused. The door swung shut behind him, closing off the servant and the mayor whose wishes were strange to him. The sun was climbing towards noon and it was already hot, the first warm day this spring. The black tabard of his uniform would be too hot today. The thick, hard-woven wool had kept him warm in the winter, but today, out in the fields, it would not do. Gwidor was not about to show himself to the townspeople in his shirt. And he had more pressing matters to attend to than picking stones. His anger rose further.

It would not do! He took a few deep breaths, letting the heat of his anger bleed away with each outward breath. Slow and deliberate. The anger remained, but his head was clear. He recognized now that the time for risks had come. There was now only one action that he could take to avoid risk– and even that could bring its own risks in the future. No, it was time to weigh gains and risks and choose what risks he would brave.

Gwidor quickly strode across the square and entered the old barracks.

…

Upon Borondir’s and Targon’s leaving, Éomer began to search the cell for weaknesses or hidden clues that could tell him whether anyone had anticipated this turn of events. He found nothing.

The walls were thick and moist in the manner of stone houses and basements that were not used often. Limestone made up the walls, but the floor was paved with slate. Deeper grooves and shallow lines covered the walls, carved or scratched into the soft stone. Some clear to the eye, others only to be felt when Éomer ran his fingers over them. He used his fingers to search, letting them run over the stone, feeling each line, stretching up to his highest reach and bending down to where wall and floor met. For the most part the scratches were random, crissing and crossing with no pattern he could discern.

On the middle of the wall he found it. A pattern in the lines invisible to the eyes, but he could feel it through the calluses on his fingertips. He traced it.

One line across at the top of the pattern, in the middle of it a new one trailed straight down and curled at the end. On each side of it a half circle with a line that angled out underneath and levelled out at the end. It was no sign or letter Éomer knew. And it was old; he could feel how worn the carving was. Once it must have been deep and clear, a stonemason’s sign perhaps. Not what he was looking for. He continued his search, but the only other sign he found were two sets of counting-lines scratched into the wall above the sleeping-bench. The letter ‘G’ was carved outside one of them.

Again, nothing he could use. His arrest was not planned then, not far enough advanced that anyone had had time to leave him a sign here. He was not sure whether that was a comforting thought or not. Not about to give up, Éomer began to search the bench itself. He stopped.

A noise.

He straightened up and held his breath. The noise was dull and muted, difficult to make out. Footsteps perhaps? The opening and closing of a door? Well, it was about time that someone came; time was short enough and he needed to find out what was happening and get word to Fastred and Húrin.

Éomer turned to face the stairs, but no one came. The footsteps became a little clearer, a little closer, then the door at the top of the stairs closed, further shutting out the sound. Whoever had entered the barracks did not intend to speak with him yet.

Both the door and the floors were thick, made to muffle sound. Éomer had to feel for the little sound carried in the walls to track the movements above. One person, he guessed. A man. Somewhat heavy and tall, the footsteps were slow but each vibrated through the stone. At one point the man trod so hard that dust fell from the roof outside Éomer’s cage. Then they disappeared and Éomer could not feel them anymore. He went back to searching, but in vain.

Time passes slowly when there is nothing to do but wait. Éomer remembered long, slow hours on watch where the night seemed like it would never end, and time itself, and the stars and the sun had stopped moving, but still those hours had rushed by compared to the slugging, stagnant hours slinking by in this cell. Only once before had time passed as slowly for Éomer: locked up in Meduseld waiting for Grima to make up the king’s mind.

Éomer lay down on the bench and closed his eyes.

He must have slept, for he woke suddenly to the sound of running feet. More dust was falling from the ceiling, trailing the path of the feet above. Along the corridor outside the cells the dust fell, towards the stair. Then they were gone, the muted slamming of the outer door the only sound that told Éomer what happened. He was on his feet, reacting almost before he had woken from his doze. He held his breath.

Nothing.

No more sounds. Outside the sun had moved; soon she would reach her midday’s height. Éomer could see where the light had moved on the wall.

No more? Had just a few hours passed? And still: too long! Where were the mayor and his servant? Where was the guard that – if Éomer had read him right – would gladly have questioned him there at the inn and wasted no more time? Two hours, perhaps more, since Borondir left; something must be wrong.

He began to pace. His horse’s plight at being stabled– shut in with no place to escape– was clearer to him. The only window, high on the wall in the cell beside him, let in light, but nothing else. No sound. He waited, tenser than he had been since he was taken. Something was wrong, and he must wait to learn it.

He did not need to wait long.

Again he heard sounds from above. Stronger than before, though still muted. From inside, and more than one this time. Éomer had not heard the outer door open, but he could discern a scuffle inside. For a moment the scuffle died and he could hear nothing, then the door at the top of the stairs was opened.

No more guessing on sounds.

A body fell down the stairs, rolling to a halt against the wall. The face was hidden by dark hair, but Éomer knew him by his clothes. Gwidor stepped down the stairs after him.

“Bergil,” Éomer said. “Why are you here?”

Bergil did not answer. His hands were tied, but he moved a little, too stunned from the tumble to speak. Éomer turned to Gwidor.

“Why is he here?” he asked. “I was led to believe that my men would be left free if I came willingly. And willingly I came, so why is he here?”

Gwidor smiled. He was tall and fit. Clean, with the look of one that had spent the last year out of doors more than in. They looked nothing alike. That smile should not have reminded Éomer of _him_ , of Wormtongue, yet it did. The smug gleam in the eyes was the same; the smug delight of one who is certain of his triumph, just before he reveals his plan. Wormtongue had looked the same right before he had goaded Éomer to draw his sword.

“Master Rodhaer,” Gwidor said. “Your men were to be left alone provided that they stayed at the inn. This young man I caught loitering in the streets, clearly up to something. Besides,” he smiled again, “I have gathered new information that, unfortunately, made it unwise to leave him roaming.”

“What information?” Éomer demanded.

“You are the one behind bars, Master Rodhaer,” Gwidor said. “You will answer, not ask.”

“I will be happy to answer any question the lord mayor has for me,” Éomer answered. “I have been waiting to do so for quite some time. You have but to bring him.”

“The lord mayor has better things to do. You will answer to me.”

“I think not.”

“And why,” Gwidor asked, “will you answer the mayor’s questions and not mine? I will bring all the answers to him. Or is it that you think he will be more easily swayed by your lies?”

“I am not the liar here,” Éomer said. “You are not acting on the mayor’s orders.”

Gwidor did not answer Éomer’s words. He gave the same smile, but the gleam in his eyes was different, more angry and dangerous. He turned from Éomer and bent down beside Bergil. Éomer stiffened, but Gwidor took no notice of it. His attention was given to Bergil.

“Wake up, little boy,” he said. “You have played, now you pay.”

He patted Bergil on the cheek. Gently first – _tap, tap._ Bergil did not answer. His eyes were shut, but his eyes moved beneath the lids.

“Time for small boys to wake.”

The sing-song of Gwidor’s voice was accompanied by soft slaps, rising in strength until Bergil grunted and opened his eyes. Gwidor smiled again. He turned to Éomer and winked.

“Your boy is awake. Care to bet on how long he will stay that way?” He dragged Bergil around so that Éomer could see him more clearly. “I am good at what I do, Master Rodhaer, and what I do is to uncover conspiracies and spies. A true rebel is hard to catch in Gondor these days– they rarely dare leave their hidey-holes– but I think I have found far more than a simple rebel spy this time. Your hair is too fair, your horse too well-bred, and your story does not ring true.”

Éomer did not pause to answer. Bergil was pale. His eyes were dull and his mouth worked as if he tried to speak, but could not. Éomer could see blood seeping down his face, but the wound was hidden by the hair.

“I care not what you think. I will speak to the mayor, not you,” Éomer said. “And if you wish Bergil to speak, you must first give him care. Open this door, and I will give it, if you do not have the skill.”

Gwidor stood. He heaved Bergil upright and pressed his face into the bars of Éomer’s cage. Bergil gave a small “Ugh”, nothing more. Éomer flinched back, one step, but then he regained his senses. He reached for Gwidor through the bars. The guard evaded him, and dragged Bergil with him out of reach.

“Leverage can always be found, Master Rodhaer. You care for him, do you not?”

“I care for all my men.” Éomer’s eyes were hard. “And I do not answer well to threats. It would be better for you if you let me care for him and fetched the mayor. He does not strike me as one that would appreciate a wounded prisoner.”

Gwidor’s answer was to drop Bergil to the floor.

“The mayor is weak,” he said, “and too trusting for his own good. You will give your confession to me. Unless he takes to his senses, _I_ will take it to Pelargir.”

If he had hoped for some reaction from Éomer, he was disappointed.

“The truth, Master Rodhaer!” Gwidor said. He kicked at Bergil.

Éomer did not move.

On the ground Bergil curled in on himself as much as he could. He too was silent.

“Tell me what I would know!” Gwidor drew back his foot again.

“Stop!”

…

Targon did not linger. He reckoned that if Gwidor meant to find the patrol, he would need to act quickly, before the mayor did. Little did he know, then, that Gwidor’s mind did not perceive any threat from the mayor. And so Targon did not guess Gwidor’s actions right, nor did his choose his own wisely.

Little did either of them know what their actions would later lead to, nor what sufferings would be caused by them. But the course of our actions is seldom clear to us and even the farsighted can seldom see to the end of all things. The One alone knows, and He is silent.

Targon reached the front door just as Gwidor closed the door to the barracks behind him, and when the servant stepped outside, he could not see Gwidor anywhere. The square was empty and silent and there were none that Targon could ask for his whereabouts.

He would have to guess, then.

Once he had made his decision as to where he would search first, Targon walked quickly and by the shortest roads. Gwidor would need a horse, and there were few he could use in Calembel. His greatest concern was that Gwidor had such a head start on him that he would not catch up with him before he was gone. With the streets empty, Targon let go of pretence and ran. 

Targon seldom ran. In walk his steps were measured, silent and smooth. Like the perfect servant he was unseen and unheard until he was needed. He had worked hard to be able to achieve this, and he never let anyone see him move differently. But now he ran like he had not done in ten years. Breath heaving, feet flailing, but their rhythm was uneven; the limp he could hide when walking was plain to see.

He passed Borondir’s house. If he had been home to see Targon, things would have gone differently. He would have wondered at the servant’s haste and perhaps a different decision would have been made by Éomer’s men. But he did not see.

Targon ran on, unseen, through the streets.

He reached the stables near the gate. The mayor had moved his horses there for shoeing; the blacksmith’s forge was close by. They were the only horses– apart from the hunters’– that did not work in the field. Gwidor would have to take one of them. With luck he was still there; he could hear movement within, and a voice.

Targon took a moment outside to catch his breath. Gwidor could not leave without him seeing it, and he did not want to appear before anyone in this town breathless, least of all Gwidor. The horses moved inside, and the voice spoke again. It did not sound like Gwidor. It was too soft, so soft that he could not make it out even though the stable doors were ajar. A horse inside stamped the ground and the voice rose amid the clangour of metal spilling on paved floor, cursing all uncooperative beasts. Targon recognized the voice. He stepped inside.

The stable was narrow. Stalls for ten horses lined the walls and the space left in the middle to walk was constricted. For one unused to horses it could be scary to enter when all the stalls were full. Targon was fairly used to horses– for a Man of Gondor– but he was still grateful that only five of the stalls were occupied. Five tails and hindquarters greeted him, all on one side. The horse closest to the door turned its head to look at him.

At the end of the walkway the sixth horse stood. Targon calmed at the sight; Gwidor had not taken any of them yet.

It was the sixth horse that had caused the commotion. The blacksmith’s apprentice had it bound at the far side of the stable where there was room enough to tack up, or shoe, even the heavy horses used in the fields. The horse was moving around, and the nippers and rasps the apprentice had been using were scattered around the floor. The young man was trying to calm the horse, but so far he was too angry himself to be very successful.

Targon moved.

“Cut the rope,” he called. “Before it hurts itself.”

“Gladly!” the youth called back. “How?”

Targon saw the problem. A thick chain was fastened to the wall, running through a ring in the wall so that the horses would not be tangled in it. The chain was fastened to the halter; it could not simply be cut. The horse was pulling back on the halter, stretching the chain too tight to get it loose.

Targon recognized it. It was a favourite of the mayor, a small, light horse with the smoothest gaits he had ever seen, but rather more nervous than palfreys usually were.

“Get help,” he ordered, “if you cannot do any good here. The mayor will not be happy should his favourite mare be injured now. Go!” Targon tried to keep his voice down, but this youth did nothing right.

“Go where?” the youth asked. “Master Bellang is at the mansion. It is too far; he will come too late.”

“The inn,” Targon answered. He was trying to get closer without agitating the mare further, or upsetting the other horses. Those hind legs could hurt. “The hunters that came yesterday; their leader has Rohirric blood. At least one of his men, if not all, should be able to help. Run!”

Off the boy went, leaving the stable doors wide open in his haste. Targon turned to the mare. _Most likely they will all be better horsemen than any here,_ he thought to himself. _And I will need a horse-lord’s help right now._

The mare was sweating. Her hindquarters shivered with the strain when she leaned back against the pressure on the poll. He tried to get closer; perhaps if he could calm her a little, he could coax her forward until the chain had enough slack for him to loosen her. She did not seem to mind or even notice him, and encouraged by that he moved even closer. Too close, it turned out.

The mare struck.

Shifting her weight to her forehand, she kicked and missed Targon only by an inch. He flinched back with not much thought, and stepped on a thong. That was all it took; the thong slipped and flew in among the hooves while Targon hit the floor hard. It did not calm the mare.

She fought harder, leaning back again, and before Targon could rise, the leather of the halter snapped. The mare threw herself around and cantered down the aisle and out the door. Targon was left on the floor, cursing all stupid apprentices. He had no time for this!

The mare had, of course, upset the other horses as well. They were striking at their stalls and stamping restlessly. Targon did not want to pass between those feet.

“Calm down!” he tried to call over the din, but that, of course, was of little use. _He had no time for this!_

He took a deep breath and began walking past the stalls. Slowly and carefully. He could only hope the horses would calm down on their own. His hip and knee ached. He must have fallen harder than he first had thought. Limping slightly, he made it past the horses alive and shut the door behind him. One horse running loose was enough.

Empty street. Again he was too late to glimpse his quarry, but this time he could at least hear it. Shouts and the sound of hooves drifted up the street from around the corner. He hurried towards it.

The mare had stopped. The street was one of the larger ones in Calembel, but she still did not have anywhere to go; five other horses blocked the street. Targon could see four men with them. The apprentice he knew, and he recognized Húrin from the meeting earlier, but two of the men he had not seen before. One was young, hardly more than a boy, and the other clearly his superior. The boy’s, but not Húrin’s, Targon guessed. The men had the light hair so typical for the Rohirrim, and judging by the older man’s skill with the mare, they could be nothing else. No wonder they had stayed away this morning.

The apprentice was holding one of the horses. He moved around it when he saw that the older man had calmed the mare.

“Thank you, sir,” he said. “Shall I take her?”

“Just lead the way. And give my own mare back.” The man looked like he would say more, but stopped himself and spoke to the other boy instead: “Can you handle Firefoot, Cearl?”

Cearl nodded.

Targon would have liked to wait and watch them unseen a little longer, but at that moment Húrin spotted him. And knew him. He spoke to the others, but his voice was too low for Targon to hear. He could guess, though. Two heads turned sharply towards him and the glare of the older man hit him. He found himself almost staggering back.

It was a glare that could rival the glare of lord Denethor himself in his anger. Could anyone who did not carry the blood of Númenór have such power?

Targon gathered himself.

“Master horseman,” he called. “It was a lucky hour that brought you here. I thank you; this mare is the favourite of the lord mayor and he will be most pleased to hear of your help.”

The man did not reply, but Targon saw Húrin speak again and the horse-lord shrugged before grabbing his own horse. They all began moving, and Targon waited for them to reach him. They stopped before him, the horses calm except for the old stallion the boy Cearl held in his right hand. It wanted to get closer to the mare. Targon waited, but the older man just glared at him. He made no sign to hand her over to him.

“I thank you for your help,” Targon repeated at last. The silence had stretched out too long, and he did not have time for waiting any longer. “I am Targon, a servant of Aduiar, the mayor of Calembel. I met Húrin here earlier today, but you and your boy here are unknown to me. What is your name, that I can tell the mayor who it was that helped save his mare from further harm?”

The man still glared at him, but Húrin pushed past Cearl and spoke instead.

“Forgive my companions. Fastred here,” he nudged the man with his foot, or rather tried to but the horses were in the way, “has been too long away from cities and towns; he has forgotten what little manners he once learned. And the boy, Cearl, takes after him; the sun has bleached both their heads and their minds I fear. And they have followed Master Rodhaer longer than I. They… we…”

Húrin trailed off. He had said more than he intended, but Targon could hear the unspoken fear in his words. And the unspoken hope.

“I am sure the mayor will listen to the men that helped save his favourite mount,” he said. “Master Fastred; since you have such a good hand with horses– as good, I would wager, as the Rohirrim themselves are fabled to be– could I ask you to lead the mare back to the stables? It is not far, and it looks like you were on your way there before she ran into you.”

Fastred grunted in response, and they walked the short way in silence. Targon watched the men through the corner of his eye. If they decided on some desperate act, things could turn bad for him. It would turn equally bad for them too, though, and for their leader.

The horses inside had calmed, but at the arrival of five strange horses, their heads shot up. The boy Cearl had his hands full with both the old stallion and the younger one he had in his other hand, but he seemed to manage them with greater skill than Targon had seen any of his age do. He, too, had to be of the horse-lords. The apprentice could learn a thing or two from him.

“Belen here was preparing the mayor’s horses for shoeing,” Targon explained. “I am sure he will help you too, should you wish it. I take it Borondir found time to deliver the message from Master Rodhaer, and you are having your horses shod?” Cearl’s face showed him that they had not expected him to know; the older men schooled their expressions better. “Tell the blacksmith that the mayor will pay any expenses there are for this; I am certain the mayor will agree with me that it is an apt reward for your services today.”

“I can think of others I would rather have,” Fastred muttered.

“Perhaps you shall have them as well.” Targon left them to sort the horses out. He turned to the apprentice.

“I came to ask if you had seen Gwidor here today,” he said. “He expressed a wish to ride, but the mayor knows that fields needs to be ready and the horses rested. If he should ask for one, tell your master that he is not to have one. Send him to speak with me; a matter has come up that I must confer with him on.”

“He has not been her, Master Targon,” Belen said. “I have not seen him at all since this morning; he came dragging my brother off on some search.”

Targon smiled at him. “Then I guess you can not tell me where he is, but perhaps you can help me narrow the search. Could he have passed through the gate while you worked?”

“I had just started working when you came in, sir. If he had passed in the meantime, I think you would have seen him. If there is a guard at the gate, he would know.”

Targon did not think Gwidor would have gone to work in the fields. The man had been too angry. And he would not try to overtake the Corsairs on foot when they were two days gone; he was still in Calembel. But where? He looked over at Húrin and Fastred. They held the horses while Cearl took one at a time to the empty stalls, but he was certain that they had heard. Five horses, not counting the mayor’s, and three men… something was missing.

Or someone.

Suddenly Targon realized that Bergil was not there. Why, when all the rest were? And at once he knew that he had been sent to keep an eye on the Manor and everyone there. When had Bergil left? He had not seen him, and there were not that many places where a man could watch the Manor unseen. But if Targon had overlooked him… he was quite certain he had not.

“Where is other boy, Bergil?” he asked. “I hope he has not taken ill since this morning.” But as he said it, he got a horrible feeling that something was wrong, and that he had run out of time.

“Just too much beer last night,” Húrin answered.

“I hope you are right,” Targon said. “I find the fresh sap of certain herbs is effective against such ailments.”

Húrin gave him a strange look. He was babbling. He could hear it himself, and he had no time to spend on babbling. He did not even know why, but a voice was telling him, over and over, that he was out of time and it drowned out all other thoughts.

“Excuse me,” he said. “I must go.”

He did not run down the walkway this time, would not even if there had been room. Gently he closed the doors behind him, and walked with measured steps down the street and around the bend.

_No time._

He ran.

The same streets, the same limping run. But the limp was worse, and painful this time. Still he ran, stumbling around the corners. Water splashed underneath his feet in the narrow alleys where the sun had not yet dried all the rainwater from the ground. Breathing became painful, his throat closed against the air. He had to stop and lean against some stairs.

_There is no time._

Off he ran again, cursing his bad luck; he had never again been able to run like he did before the War, but the fall had slowed him even more. Slicing pain spiked through his hip and knee with every step. He faltered.

_No time. No time!_

Ha ran on.

The blood hammered the words in his body; his feet beat them into the ground:

_No time, no time, no time, no time!_

And he was there. Skidding into the empty square. No sign of Bergil. No sign of Gwidor. No sign of any man.

_No time!_

Targon stood there. Breathing in and out, in and out. Slowly the beat in his body stilled. His breath evened. The square lay there, silent and empty; it offered no answers. For the second time that day Targon did not know what to do.

He waited.

This time he waited against his heart beating _no time, no time, no time._ He waited on his breath whispering _wait, wait just a moment longer._ He waited for what he did not know, until the wait ended.

And then the wait ended.

Sooner than his fear, sooner than his hope, the wait ended. Out from the barracks came a small, young woman. No taller than a child she was; it was Sedil, the room-maid of the inn.

She slipped silently out the door and closed it carefully again. Targon was on her before she could step down the stairs.

“Where is he?”

She flinched. Targon wanted to pull back his hand, to let her go and never cause her fear again. She looked like she was twelve, the age of his own daughter when he lost them all: mother, wife, daughter, sister.

“Please, sir. I do not know what you ask, sir. Where is who, sir?”

But the tremble in her voice was deeper than twelve, her eyes too old.

“You know who, girl!” He hardened his heart against her. “You went to meet him here. What did you tell him?”

“Please, sir.” Her voice rose a little, the pitch growing younger by each word. “He told me to go to him, sir. Said the mayor would be pleased, sir. Said he would make sure I was rewarded, sir. Never be hurt again, sir.”

And her tremble was too perfect, her eyes cast down just right, the shaking of her body too controlled.

“What did you tell him?”

“The other guard, sir. He came to the inn, sir. Master Ingold met him, sir. They all talked with the hunters, sir. Conspiring, sir. I know it when I hear it, sir. The hunters, they are not from here, sir; they come from beyond the Mountains, sir.”

Targon closed his eyes, but he did not let go of her arm. Gwidor had all the proof he needed now.

_Too late!_

“Where is he now?”

“He went out, sir, I did not see where.”

“Where is he now!”

She screamed. His fist had closed around her wrist.

“Inside, sir! He came back. Made more noise than three men, he did, sir. I hid in his room upstairs, but he did not come up, so I left, sir.”

He looked at her. Saw her fear change, become more real.

“Please, sir! It hurts.”

He nodded. Made his voice warm and soft. Better let her believe herself safe.

“All will be fine,” he said. “You did right.”

He let her go. She could be dealt with later. Now to find Gwidor, and Beregond’s son.

The door down to the cells was open. Targon heard voices and movements; dull, heavy sounds he remembered all too well. He reached the end of the stairs, saw Gwidor draw back his foot and heard him say: "Tell me what I would know!"

Saw Bergil, son of Beregond, lying on the ground. Saw Gwidor glare and draw his foot back further…

"Stop!"

Targon did not know that he spoke until the word echoed back to him from the stone walls. Gwidor froze, foot still drawn back, and turned his head.

Éomer, too, turned at the sound. His eyes followed Gwidor’s towards the stairs, but he could not see past the spiral of the stairs. Could not see who had come.

Gwidor saw the speaker first. The guard put his foot back on the ground and turned from Bergil. There was a moment where all was silent, then Targon stepped down into the room.

"What are you doing here, Gwidor?" he said. "You are supposed to be in the fields."

He spoke calmly enough, but his breath was a little strained and Éomer could see a limp he had only sensed before. The servant stopped right inside the room, looking from Gwidor to Éomer to Bergil lying on the ground.

"It was my understanding that the mayor wanted to question the prisoner himself."

"The mayor is weak," Gwidor answered. "And I have received news on the hunters that prove their guilt. But the mayor will never act on this. If you help me, you will avoid falling with your master when the time comes." He turned back to Éomer. "Will you speak?"

"If you touch him again," Éomer said, "you will not leave this room alive."

Gwidor laughed. "You are stuck behind bars, hunter. You can bring me no harm."

He kicked at Bergil, but before he could even turn back to gloat, he was struck to the ground. Targon crashed into him and they fell, twisting in the air, fighting even as they fell. Slamming to the ground, the servant pinned him– stronger and faster than Gwidor had ever imagined he would be. Targon said nothing, only hissed and struck at him, aiming for his head. It hit, and Targon got one more punch in before the shock wore off and Gwidor fought back.

He caught the arm and twisted in the servant's grip. They rolled, neither getting the upper hand until Gwidor managed to roll on top. The servant struck again, and got a foot into play. They twisted, and fell apart, Gwidor gaining his feet a little faster than Targon did.

Éomer could only watch. Watch and wait, and stand near the bars in readiness.

"Look out!"

Targon scrambled up and away at Éomer's call. Gwidor had drawn a knife; the servant bled from the arm.

"What betrayal is this?" he whispered. "You have no leave to carry arms."

"My masters gave it to me before I came," Gwidor answered. "The betrayal is your master's, not mine."

He lunged again, and Targon twisted away. His back struck the bars. He was slower than he should have been; Éomer could see he favoured his hip and knee, but the servant did not back down. He drew a knife of his own.

"The mayor gave me mine," he said. "And you will not touch Beregond's son again."

This time Targon lunged, but Gwidor was ready. Blocking Targon’s knife-arm with his left, he caught the servant on his knife. It cut through clothes and skin and flesh, deep into his gut. Gwidor smiled. He plucked the knife from Targon's hand and studied it.

"I was mistaken," he said. "I thought the mayor was at fault, but it seems that he was only blind. You are the traitor here, and these your men."

He pushed Targon to the wall and grinned. Targon did not answer him, but he braced against the wall and pushed Gwidor with all his might towards the cage. And Éomer's waiting hands.

The king caught Gwidor around the neck and held him tight. He fumbled for the knife, and soon he had disarmed the guard. He pushed the point of the knife to the place where jaw meets ear, not yet breaking the skin. Before he could speak, a new voice rang:

“I did not know you had learned to lie so well, Éomer king.”

Aduiar of Harondor, Mayor of Calembel, stood at the end of the stairs.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wheelrider have begun helping me edit the remaining chapters, in addition to the help I have received earlier, and will help weed out remaining problems in the first chapters as well as time allows. I am very grateful for this help.


	9. True Colours

At the mayor’s words, Gwidor flinched under Éomer’s arm. “Lord Mayor,” he began, but Éomer tightened his grip and Gwidor fell silent. But his body relaxed a little; he had been proven right. The mayor could not deny him now. “Killing me will not avail you now,” he hissed at Éomer.

“I told no lie,” Éomer replied, he spoke to the mayor as if the Gwidor had not spoken. “You are late, Aduiar. I began to fear that you had forgotten me. But that can wait.” Gwidor tensed, sensing that something was wrong, but Éomer held him as before; the king had neither tensed nor relaxed his stance. He nodded towards the wall. “Both Targon and Bergil are hurt, I know not how bad,” he continued. “Look to them; I will keep this rat.”

Aduiar obeyed without words. He crouched down beside Bergil and began loosening his bonds. At the sight Gwidor struggled; he was in deeper trouble than before! And he could not get out of Éomer’s grasp. The king held him and spoke in his ear.

“You did not aim high enough, Gwidor,” he said. “For all the conspiracies you saw, you saw not the one you should. I had hoped to keep the secret longer, but from what I hear you will be no loss to this town. Now tell me: who are the masters that sent you here, and why were you sent?”

Gwidor said nothing. The one risk he had been forced to gamble, he had lost. He did not wish to die; his whole life he had lived avoiding death, but now he did not doubt that he would. He would die, and soon. If not by Éomer’s hand, then by worse.

“Who gave you proof against my men? Who gave us away?”

He wondered if the king would spare him if he told. But no. His masters would not, and the mayor would not let anyone go that could give him away. Before he could make up his mind Targon spoke.

“It was Sedil, the girl that Ingold took in. I met her at the door and let her go, believing she was safe.” He looked up at Bergil whom the mayor had freed and who was now sitting propped up to the wall. “How badly are you hurt?”

“I do not know,” Bergil said. “The room keeps turning. But why were you helping? I thought…”

“That story is too long to tell here,” Aduiar said. “Be still for now, both. You will need better care than I can give here, but that, too, must wait a little while.” He pressed Targon’s hand to his side to staunch the bleeding. “Keep pressing here, I would not lose you now, but I need more hands to move you.” He stood and turned his attention to Gwidor and the king. But Targon spoke to Bergil, his voice barely heard:

“I served with your father at the Citadel. I could not stand by and see you hurt.”

Bergil found nothing to say to that, but he moved closer and helped him press down on the wound. Targon hissed, and did not speak again.

Aduiar faced Gwidor. “Is there anything you can tell us that will be useful?”

“No.”

“Can not or will not?” But Gwidor did not answer. He pressed his lips shut and tried to struggle free from Éomer’s hold.

Aduiar shifted his gaze to Éomer. “It is too dangerous to let him live. If he was sent to spy on me, his word will be believed above mine.”

Éomer nodded. Before Aduiar could step closer, or Gwidor struggle loose, his hand moved. He let go of the guard, and Gwidor fell to the floor. He bled out quickly; his throat was cut.

“His death was mine, King Éomer,” Aduiar said. “It was me he betrayed. And Targon…” He could not finish the sentence.

“Yours, and many others’,” Éomer replied. “But there was no reason to wait, and now you can truthfully say that a rebel killed Gwidor. A rebel you ordered locked in your cells to await your judgement.”

Aduiar shock his head, but he could not fully repress a smile. “You do not like lies,” he said. “Even when it is necessary, you do your best to avoid them.”

“The Enemy lies,” was Éomer’s answer.

They left Gwidor on the floor and locked the cellar-door. A corpse tells no stories true or false, and fetches no patrols. Gwidor could wait; moving Targon and Bergil was difficult enough. Bergil could walk, but he was unsteady on his feet. He held on to Éomer’s shoulder and leaned heavily on him whenever he stumbled. Targon had to be carried. It took all the strength of both Aduiar and Éomer to carry him up the stairs, across the square and into his room in the main building. Aduiar left it to Éomer to make the wounded comfortable.

Only one other servant, a cook, stayed in the Mansion with the mayor and Targon. She was preparing the midday meal for the mayor; cutting and mixing, stirring and blending and tasting the seasonings. The door opened behind her, and she turned, a rebuke ready on her tongue. It died there when she saw it was the mayor.

She curtsied and stammered. Apologies for the state of the kitchen, for the state of her clothes and hair, for not having the food ready but “his lordship had not asked for so early a meal.” Behind all her babbling words the question could be heard: why was the mayor there, and not his servant?

Aduiar sent her to fetch the healing woman. She who knew of herbs and plants, cattle and childbirths: old Adeglan’s widow, Asteth. The nearest healer was too far away; she would have to do.

“My lord,” she said. “My old legs; I cannot run as once I did in my youth. Where is your servant? He could find her sooner, and the sooner she will come to ease you.”

“I need her not,” he answered. “Targon has been hurt, and his hurt is grave. Bid her bring all she might need to staunch blood and bind wounds.”

The cook fled, her legs far younger than she liked to complain. She asked no more questions, and Aduiar was grateful for it. He took one last look at the kitchen before he, too, left. He had not been down there before. The kitchen was large. The barracks had had their own kitchens, but the mayor’s kitchen was still built to feed many. Up underneath the roof dry or drying herbs and spices hung. Most of them grew in the gardens, but some were bought from the South. Aduiar knew that the cook tried, but she had yet to manage to make the food of his childhood. Even with the spices. It was the one thing he had never been able to forget: the taste of the food in Harondor.

His eyes counted and named the spices, remembering each taste. Hot, sweet ginger, fiery pepper, dry cinnamon.

He stopped his reminiscing. There was one herb there that he had not seen before, but he knew it. It had been described to him; a forbidden herb to be wary of. He did not know that the cook kept it, here of all places. Gwidor could not have seen it, or he would have acted sooner.

A moment’s hesitation, then Aduiar took the stick behind the door and gently fetched the herb down. He did not know if half the stories about it were true, but even so it would be useful. Wrapping the leaves in a piece of cloth, Aduiar took the kingsfoil with him when he returned to Éomer king.

…

Blood. Red, fresh blood seeped out beneath the bandages Éomer kept pressed against Targon’s wound. He had placed Bergil on the floor with strict orders not to move, for now it was the servant that needed care the most.

Éomer was no healer. He only knew that he must stop the blood. He could feel it running through his fingers, leaking away. Warm and sticky and red. Red staining his hands. Red staining the clothes. Red spreading over the bedclothes, the bed, the floor, the walls until the whole room was red, smelled red, tasted red, and Éomer regretted that he had killed Gwidor because now he could not kill him again.

“Éomer King.”

Aduiar stood in the doorway.

“Is there a healer on the way?” Éomer wanted someone else to take over, to put Targon back together and leave _him_ free to do what he needed to: get food for his people. Rescue a friend.

Aduiar nodded. “We have no healers like those in Minas Tirith, but I have sent the cook for Asteth, Adeglan’s widow. She knows the property of herbs and the binding of wounds.”

“The wound is deep,” Éomer said. “I have not been able to staunch it. And we have other concerns as well.”

“Yes.” Aduiar poured water into the washbasin Targon always kept by the door. Where that habit came from, Targon had never told. Now it was useful.

“Who will need to know?” he asked.

“Ingold and Borondir,” Éomer answered. “And my men, at least those that will meet you. We should gather here, now or as soon as possible. Húrin might be of help, he knows most about healing, and neither Targon nor Bergil should be moved. Is there any you can send?”

“No. Targon did all my errands, and the cook was the only one left here. One of us must go.”

“Take over here,” Éomer said, and Aduiar knew it was an order. “I am more suited for that task; the others do not yet trust you.”

“There might be other spies.”

“The girl worries me, but I do not think there are others. And even if there were, we have little choice.” Éomer moved so that Aduiar could take his place with new bandages. He looked at his hands. “I should wash, and change my clothes. Walking bloody through the town would not be wise.”

“Take whatever you can find to fit you.”

Éomer nodded and turned to check on Bergil. He had not moved since Éomer ordered him to sit. He had not spoken either. His eyes were closed, and he was leaning his head against the wall. Beads of red seeped from a cut on his forehead.

More red.

Éomer crouched down before him, one knee on the ground not to fall. He did not touch him, did not want to leave the red on his hands on anyone else.

“Bergil?”

The young man opened his eyes.

“How are you?”

“I … I don’t know,” Bergil said. His eyes wandered a bit, but he spoke clearly enough. “What happened?”

“Later,” Éomer said. “You took a hard hit to your head and I want Húrin to have a look at it. Or a healer, but Targon is gravely hurt. He will need Asteth’s skills more. Wait here. Rest, but try to stay awake. I will fetch the others; all answers will have to wait until then. For now: know that you will be safe here.”

Bergil nodded, too tired to do anything else.

Éomer washed as quickly as he could. Washed away the red. Washed away the uncertainty; there was no more time for doubt or secrets. Clean cool water on his skin, washcloth rubbing away the dried stains of rusty red. It burned. The water too cold against raw hands, but all the red slid off him and into the basin. His hair was wet again, but it did not matter. Éomer found a clean shirt and dragged it over his head, sleeves slightly too long and shoulders tighter than he liked but it would serve for now.

Aduiar turned his head towards him.

“Borondir’s wife might be home still. You can send her for him.”

“That would save time,” Éomer agreed. “But there is one thing I must ask. It would save much time later and allow me to decide on what we should do.”

Aduiar had turned back to Targon, but he answered: “Ask.”

“Will the Enemy come himself?”

Aduiar did not answer. His face was turned away and Éomer could not read his posture.

“Come where?”

Éomer could hear the confusion in his voice; he had not anticipated the question. Éomer would have smiled; few managed to surprise Aduiar.

“Ingold had a letter,” he explained. “A letter sent to the Steward from the Dark Tower. It said that the Enemy would be at the celebrations in Minas Tirith himself. Do you know if this is true?”

“No,” Aduiar answered. “No, he is not coming himself. His servant, the Master of Orthanc, will preside.”

“That is all I need to know, at the moment. We will lay our plans when I return.” With one last check on Bergil, Éomer left.

…

Adulas closed the door. Since this autumn they never left it unlocked and she fumbled a bit with the keys, still not quite used to it. She did not see or hear Éomer approach, did not notice him until she turned and he was there, standing on the bottom steps.

“My lord!”

He was beside her, silencing her before she could say more.

“There might be other ears around,” he warned. His voice was low. “And there is little time for explanations, should it be safe to speak them here. I need you to fetch Borondir. Tell him to meet me in the mayor’s house. Let none else know what has happened– we need some time to determine our best course of action– but Gwidor has forced our hands. The story of it can wait until all are gathered; I will find Ingold and my men. We will all meet at the Mansion.”

“But… he told me you had been arrested,” she stammered. “What have Gwidor and the mayor done? Why are you here? _How_ are you here?”

“The answers must wait,” Éomer said. “Just fetch him. We need to lay plans while the town is empty. If I am not there when he returns, tell him to wait. Aduiar will know if there is anything he can do to help until I return. I must catch a spy before she suspects anything.

“Go!”

The command sent her scrambling down the stair; she all but stumbled in her haste. Mayhap he had been too harsh, but Éomer had no time for her questions. Too late he realized that he had forgotten to ask if she knew whether Fastred and Húrin had heeded his command to shoe the horses or not. The inn would be best, he decided; Ingold would know where they were if they were not there. And the girl should be there. He could not risk that she should leave and bear news to Ethring or Tarnost. Or a nearby patrol.

If Fastred and Húrin had stayed at the inn, and if one of them had kept watch through the window, they would have seen the king arrive by the back-alley. But the window was empty and dark, and none could be seen in the square outside the inn. Empty was the hall as well, but Éomer found Ingold in the common room, cleaning the tables. He looked up, and was startled to see Éomer there.

“É… Master Rodhaer!” He remembered himself in time. “It is good to see you safe and free. How…?”

“The tale can wait. I must find my men, and the servant-girl you took in.” Even in just a borrowed shirt Éomer looked in that moment far more a king than he had earlier. He had decided on what action to take, and now time was short.

“Lord. Your men have taken the horses to be shod. There is a stable beside the blacksmith; they will be there still.” Ingold had not moved from the table he had been cleaning; the rag was still in his hand. “Sedil is in the kitchen, she has been there all morning. But why do you need her, lord?”

“Have you seen her?”

Ingold frowned. “No,” he said. “Not since Borondir came with your message, but at this time of day she always prepares the meals.”

“Show me to the kitchen,” Éomer said. “I hope she is there now, but I know that she has not stayed there all the time.”

The kitchen was empty. As was the stables, the yard at the back and the rest of the inn. What little clothes Sedil had owned, were gone from her room.

Éomer wasted no more time to search any further. He bade Ingold gather all the maps and letters they had used last night and catch up with him on the way. Or at the blacksmith’s stables if he was not fast enough. Ingold heard the command in his voice, and hurried with no further questions.

Éomer turned the last corner when Ingold caught up with him.

“Can we trust the blacksmith?” Éomer did not turn or acknowledge Ingold’s presence in any other way than to question.

“This morning I would have said yes,” Ingold answered. “But this morning I thought Sedil was just a poor outcast. Even thought you have not told me the reason that you seek her, I can guess that it is not good.”

“She spied on you,” Éomer said. “She reported to Gwidor.” He walked on, giving Ingold no choice but to follow.

“Then we must get you all away before he tells the Mayor! It was lucky he let you go before the news reached him. Borondir and I will have to flee as well, and who knows how many more.” Ingold paused, struck by a new thought. “But how did you learn this?”

“Gwidor will tell nothing,” Éomer said. “He is dead by my hand. We must stop the girl before she can reach the nearest soldiers. I had hoped to catch her before she got suspicious and left, but the full tale must wait. Can we trust the blacksmith?”

“I would trust him,” Ingold said. “But his apprentice is young and has not yet learned caution. And it is better if as few as possible know.”

Éomer agreed. If they could avoid it, he would not show himself to the blacksmith just yet.

They were there. The stable-doors were half open, but the door to the smithy was closed. Someone worked there, though: they could hear the noise from the hammer and smell the burning coals. Ingold peeked inside the stables to make sure.

“They are alone.”

As soon as Éomer entered, Firefoot turned his head. Húrin, who was holding the stallion, paid him little attention, and in turn Firefoot paid him none. He turned, all grace and dignity like only a horse can muster, and walked towards the doors to greet his rider. Húrin found that he had to let go of the lead-rope, or be dragged along.

“This is why I do not need Rangers watching my back,” Éomer announced. “My horse is far more vigilant than they.”

Two sounds cut through the silence that followed. The loudest was the sharp, metallic sound of the rasp Fastred dropped on the floor. The other was the soft, deep sound of Firefoot’s greeting.

“And this, Ingold,” Éomer said. “Is why we love our horses so; they are far more loyal than men. And far brighter. Why else would Firefoot be the only one to greet me, instead of being struck dumb?”

Fastred dropped the hoof he was working on and straightened his back.

“Sire!”

“I am glad to see that you have obeyed my message. How far is the work?”

“Sire.” Fastred could not find his words, and Éomer king was of no help. He stuttered: “How did you come here?”

“On foot, since my horse is here.”

“Sire!”

Éomer smiled. “I promise you the full tale, but we do not have the time now. How many horses are ready?”

 _But time enough to jest._ Fastred did not speak his thought, but answered his king. “Four, lord. As soon as I finish with this hoof.”

“Which one is left?”

“Bergil’s, sire. But…”

Éomer stopped him. “Good.

“Now, we will need to make plans. Borondir has been sent for, and I need all of us gathered as soon as can be. Bergil’s horse can wait, or the blacksmith can shoe it if you think him capable. But Húrin, I am sorry; you must hear our plans, and the tale, later. I need you to track down and bring back Sedil, the servant-girl from the inn. She left no more than an hour ago, but we do not know in what direction she went.”

“I can track her,” Húrin said. “But why? What danger threatens her?”

“Us,” Éomer answered. “She is an agent of the Enemy.”

Húrin nodded, he knew better than to waste time on further explanations. “I will go at once,” he said. “Is Bergil outside? Two eyes are better than one. I could have need of him.”

“He is wounded, but it is not too grave, I think. I would have wanted you to look at him, but that too will have to wait. You must find the girl before she can tell her tale to anyone else. Bring her to the Mayor’s Mansion when you catch her, we will lay our plans there.”

“To the mayor?”

The question echoed between all four. Éomer waived it off.

“Húrin, you must begin your search now. The mayor is an ally; let that be enough until you return.”

“That would explain much,” Húrin said, and with that he wasted no more time.

Fastred did not let go that easily.

“The mayor is an ally?” he asked. “When did that happen?”

But at the same time Ingold asked: “How did you win him over?” and though Éomer would prefer to wait, he saw that it would take less time if he gave some account now.

“Close the doors, Cearl,” he said. “And keep an eye on the street; make sure that there are none listening.” He waited until the doors were closed before he continued.

“To answer your question, Ingold: I did not. Aduiar has been an ally before he ever came to Calembel. Because of his mixed blood he could infiltrate the Enemy’s men and gain positions no other among the Faithful could. It would give him access to information it would be hard to come by otherwise, and his position here has made this town as safe for the Faithful as any town in Gondor can be.

“We deemed it safest that only three of us knew what he truly was: Glorfindel, myself and Targon, his servant.”

“Targon?” Ingold asked.

“Yes.” Éomer would tell no more. “Fastred,” he said. “Finish shoeing your horse, then meet us at the Mansion. If you think the blacksmith will do decent enough work, have him shoe Bergil’s horse. If not, it will have to wait. Cearl and Ingold: come with me. We will take the horses to the inn on our way, and lay plans as soon as we can.”

“It may take time before Húrin returns,” Ingold said. “I do not doubt that he can track the girl, but unless he happens upon her trail at once, he might be gone a day or more.”

“We do not have a day,” Éomer said. “We must leave by tomorrow if we shall have any hope of reaching Minas Tirith in time.”

“You meant to…?”

“Yes,” Éomer cut Fastred off. “And I will speak no more of it here. Voice your concerns later.” He did not give Fastred any chance to say more. He took Firefoot and left. Ingold and Cearl followed, each bringing a horse.

Cearl lingered a moment after the others had left. He sent one last look at Fastred, silently begging forgiveness that the king had ordered him to follow, and Fastred to finish the shoeing. But it was lost on Fastred; he stood already bent over the hoof and did not see the youth.

The walk back was without words.

…

The sun grew hotter on her way down from her midday-height. She travelled slowly, sending her rays down on the town and the fields around. There, out in the fields the workers shed the last of the clothes they could shed with decency and worked in their long under-shirts. Some had even shed their breeches. From above the men looked like white dots of sheep spread across dark pastures. The women in hitched-up over-skirts had darker colours against the white, all drab and faded with the long days of outdoor work. One man, Borondir, had donned his clothes and broken off his work, heading home while the rest worked on. His wife took his place. On the lighter road, he was a dark spot; a black sheep leaving his work before the day ended.

Húrin met him at the gates. A moment later they passed, each going where the other had been; Borondir into the town, and Húrin across the road and into the forest beyond. He soon disappeared from sight.

The sun above, looking down on Calembel, could see the men that moved through the empty streets; small dots of grey and green hardly distinguishable from the houses. From time to time she could see movement in the forest as well. There, Húrin picked up a trail. There, he disappeared beneath the canopy of trees. There, he crossed a clearing, getting closer to the small, light dot of the servant-girl.

She had taken a wide berth off the road so that she would not be seen by any of the townspeople. She did not know it at the time, but just as she stepped back on the road, Húrin bent down to study the footprint she had left in the mud beside a small brook. His longer legs were gaining on her, and his wood-skill far surpassed hers; she would not reach Ethring. She should never have tried.

Húrin rose. The trail was fresh and clear. He did not hesitate but ran with the long, easy steps of the hunter that knows that his quarry is already caught.

It was at the same time that Húrin rose from the trail that Fastred reached the Mayor’s Mansion. The door was unlocked and he entered.

The hallway was empty. He listened, but could not hear any voices that could lead him to Éomer king. The first door he came to was closed, but he tried it, and found it too unlocked. Empty, like the hall, the room was big, and on one wall there was a mural of the White City. Fastred recognized one of the figures standing outside the walls: the Master of Isengard. A Man knelt at his feet.

“You found my mural.”

Fastred turned. The man standing behind him looked much like Borondir, or perhaps Húrin. Taller than Fastred, dark hair, grey…ish eyes. His skin was darker than the men of Gondor, but that, and the muddled eyes, was all the difference.

“Not that I can take the credit for having it commissioned,” the man continued, “but now it is mine nonetheless. I like to ask people what they see in it, what story it tells. The answers are most revealing.” He paused, as if waiting for Fastred to speak, but the Rider did not respond. If this were a test, Fastred would not play. The man smiled, the gleam in his eyes unlike any mirth Fastred had seen in other men.

“Silence is an answer most telling too, you know,” he said. “But you are the first to offer me it. Most are too frightened to deny me. Or at least most have been these past seven years. Today, it seems, all things change; I am even reduced to playing errand-boy in my own home.”

“You are the Mayor.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Correct. Or, more precisely, I am Aduiar of Harondor. Many have been mayor here before me, and many will hold the office after, I have no doubt, but at the moment I am the mayor of Calembel.” He gave another small smile. “You are Fastred. One of king Éomer’s lesser marshals and his chief scout. Step aside, please.”

Fastred tensed at his words.

“Despite my wording it was not a request,” Aduiar said. “Your king would wish us to join him quickly. Do you not wish to see him?”

“I wish to,” Fastred answered. “I came here looking; take me to him.”

“Then step aside so that I can find what I was sent to fetch.” Aduiar moved into the room, past Fastred. Around his neck he bore a golden chain with an emblem fastened on it, the symbol of his office. A Tree, for Gondor, a purse, for the merchant town of Calembel, and above them; the Eye. Fastred shuddered, but Aduiar took hold of the emblem and pushed on the eye. There was a click, barely audible, and he pulled a small key from it. He reached the mural.

“None have ever asked me what I see in this picture,” he said. Fastred said nothing. Aduiar continued nonetheless. “I see many things, but foremost is the story of how even the Enemy’s actions can carry a truth he never intended.” He brushed his hand over the image and pushed on the crown held in the hand of the Master of Isengard. There was a click, and a panel sprang up where the white banner of the Stewards was painted. Behind there was a keyhole, and when Aduiar turned his key, another section of the mural opened. Behind were hidden scrolls and papers.

“Ah! There they are. An elaborate hiding-place, perhaps, but none have dared ask _me_ what I see in the picture.” Aduiar stretched out his hand and reached in to retrieve two of the scrolls. “I will take the rest with me later, when we leave I suspect. It will be of little use here, and I do not know if I will be able to return.”

He closed the hatch. It shut close with a scraping of stone; if any crack was visible on the closed stone, it was hidden by the paint. The keyhole covering shut with a small click– it, too, invisible under the mural’s colours. Aduiar turned to Fastred.

“The image shows the coronation of the king Elessar. On the surface, the lie that the Enemy would have us believe; underneath, hidden except for those that know where to look, is our resistance, which is the truth about that day. I did not witness it, but I have heard that the strength of the Elfstone was greater that day than that of the Lieutenant of Barad-dûr.”

“Ingold said as much.” Fastred did not quite know what to think about this man who was no longer an enemy. _He never was_ , a small voice whispered in his mind, but Fastred paid it no attention; his eyes had caught a glimmer of green on the kneeling figure’s breast.

“What is that?” he asked. He pressed forward to see it better. Aduiar moved out of the way.

“It is the Elessar, the Elfstone.”

“No,” Fastred said. “I mean that thing around his neck; the green stone.”

“The stone is the Elessar,” Aduiar answered. “The king was named after it, or so the story tells. He carried the stone when first he came on the dark ships. The people did not know his name, and so they called him ‘Elfstone’ from the green stone. It is said to have healing powers, and that it was given to him by the Lady of the Golden Wood, but I do not know the truth of it.”

“I have seen it,” Fastred said. “In a dream.” He hunched down before the picture and leaded in to study the face of the kneeling king. Was it the face from his dream?

“You saw the Elfstone in a dream?” Aduiar hunched down beside him. “When was this?”

“On the first night after leaving. We had not left the Huorn’s guard. Since then the dream has visited me three times; last only this morning.” Fastred did not know why he told this man of all people, this half-Corsair whom he still did not quite trust, despite the words of Éomer king.

“I know something about dreams,” Aduiar said. “Tell me.”

Aduiar’s words made Fastred withdraw the hand that had hovered above the painted stone. He stood. He stepped away from the wall, and so it was that he never learned the second secret that the mural held. It was not until years later that another would come and uncover the secret that only the painter knew. But that story must wait, and it is uncertain if the secret would have helped them.

“I did not see _him_.” Fastred pointed to the kneeling king.

“How do you know?” Aduiar asked.

“He did not look like him.”

“So you saw a man. Know that in dreams looks matter little, and should the dream be right, the painting might not. I am not entirely certain that the painter knew what the king looks like. Did the man wear the stone?”

“No. None did. Unless you count the horse.” Fastred would rather not talk, would rather forget the dream. Perhaps then it would go away and turn out to mean nothing. What he thought he understood, he did not like, and the rest confused him.

“Tell me the dream,” Aduiar repeated. “It is clear that it troubles you, and if it concerns the lord Elessar, it might well bear significance to our endeavours.”

That only reminded Fastred of Éomer’s decision to risk a rescue. He could not see how it would be possible to free anyone held prisoner in Minas Tirith, let alone the Hostage of Mordor. And he saw none of the hope Lindir had expressed in his dream. Only peril.

“If it has, it is as a warning,” Fastred answered. “It is full of death. Death, darkness and decay.” He fell silent, but Aduiar just waited, still hunched down by the mural. He showed no sign to move or rise, content to wait until Fastred would continue. Damn the man!

“I dream of a battlefield, covered in snow,” he said, giving in. “As the snow melts, the fallen lie there, rotting. In the middle of the field there is a white tree with seven stars above it, hovering in the air. Under it there lies a man, rotting like the rest, but he is moving. Beside him another man stands, dark-haired and tall. He says: ‘I am already dead; I cannot help.’

“The dream shifts, and I see a White Horse galloping towards us, greater than Shadowfax himself. On his back is a youth, fair-haired and keen-eyed.  The youth tries to help the fallen man, and there is a great struggle between Light and Shadow. They whirl around each other, making it impossible to see. At the end of it, the youth is on the ground. Fallen, moving in decay as the man did before, and the man is gone. But the youth holds in his hand a green stone, like the one painted here, and the Horse takes it and bears it away, and the grass covers the field where it runs.

“But the youth dies, and when I ask why, the dead man standing beside me only tells me that _I_ am alive.”

Fastred did not say any more. Aduiar sensed that he did not wish to say more.

“Both a warning and a promise, I think,” the mayor said. “I do not doubt that it was the lord Elessar you saw; the White Tree and Seven Stars is the mark of Elendil that lord Elessar raised at the battle of Pelennor Fields. Together with the green stone, it does not matter if the man in your dream looks like the king; I cannot think of any other it could be. The man beside him I do not know, but many fell in battle. It may be that it is one of his men that are appearing in your dream.

“The youth on the white horse…”

“I know _that_ part,” Fastred said. “That part is the warning, that is easy enough to guess.”

“And so you fear that Rohan will suffer for Gondor’s deliverance.”

Fastred would not have put it that way, but…

“I fear for Éomer king,” he said.

“Why?”

“Who else could the rider be? Eorl the Young? Béma himself? Eorl is long dead, and Béma would not fall to the Shadow.”

“It is, of course, your dream.” Aduiar did not sound convinced.

“It is not just the dream,” Fastred protested. “We came across a dying orc in Fangorn. It revealed that there were some plans laid against the King in Minas Tirith. It carried the star-brooch and the dagger Gwidor found.”

During most of the conversation Aduiar had been pursing his lips and tapping his fingers on his chin or the corner of his mouth, much to the chagrin of Fastred, but when he heard about the orc, the tapping stopped. The Mayor curled his lips in mirth.

“Who killed the orc?” he asked.

 _What does it matter who killed the orc?_ Fastred did not voice his thought, but it must have somehow showed. The Mayor gave a small chuckle.

“Indulge my curiosity, Master Rider,” he said.  “I merely wish to solve a small mystery.”

“It was stabbed by its own leader,” Fastred found himself answering. “I saw it; it was a mortal wound, though a slow death.”

Aduiar laughed. Fastred had quickly guessed that Aduiar was a man whose actions were not easily predicted, but even so, laughter was something he had not anticipated. He saw no reason to laugh himself.

“Forgive me,” Aduiar said. “But your king _really_ does not wish to lie, does he?” He shook his head, still laughing, and rose to his feet. A different man from the one that had spoken to Gwidor only this morning. His mask had fallen, and for a time he had no need to resume it.

He clasped Fastred’s shoulder. “Come,” he said. “Let us go find your truth-speaking king. And tell them all the warning of your dream, if warning it is.

“Tell me,” he added, “have you been foresighted all your life? It is an unusual thing among your people. Even here in Gondor that gift is rare, and only among the highborn is it seen with any frequency. Among the commoners it is very rare indeed. I hear it is different in the North, but I know little of the people of the Mark.”

“I have never had the gift of foresight,” Fastred said. “And my dreams have never been true. This could just be a nightmare.”

“But it does not feel like one.”

“No,” Fastred admitted. “It does not. And I fear for the king.”

“You already said as much.”

“He has already decided to go to Minas Tirith. I knew as soon as we heard the news that he wanted to go. Even knowing what the orc said, he wanted to go. Even if he knew for certain that there is a trap waiting for him, he would still want to go. And if he falls, his sister and Elfhelm will never forgive me.

“He is not even wed; his line may be broken before it even begins. If not for his sister-son, I do not think Elfhelm would ever let him leave Wellinghall, let alone the Huorn’s Guard.”

Fastred stood facing the mural. It was hard to take his eyes off it, and though he never had seen the king Elessar, he began to understand a little the need and desperation he had heard in Ingold’s words when he spoke of him. He turned away, and met the eyes of his king.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Targon is mentioned in RotK; he is the quartermaster in Beregond’s company.
> 
> Béma is the name the Eorlingas gave the Valar Oromë. They believed he brought the forefather of Felaróf – and the mearas – with him from the West. See App A, The House of Eorl
> 
> A/N: Weelrider has helped with final beta and spelling-nitpicks on this and the remaining chapters. Any lingering faults are all mine.   
> I hope to be back to more frequent updates now, especially since the rest of the chapters have been proof-read. I will have the first done as well, in time.


	10. Even in death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning: see endnote

“Are you sure this plan will work?”

Éomer king did not answer at once. What plan had ever worked according to, well, plan? None that he knew of. But he did not voice _that_ thought.

“As sure as I can be, Ingold,” he said instead. “We need to consult Aduiar’s maps, but I think my memory of the Pelennor is accurate enough. We will need only small adjustments, I guess.”

He rubbed the front of his left shoulder. Lightly. Absentmindedly. He had not had time to notice it before, but he would probably have a bruise there from the bars. It would fade before they reached Minas Tirith, but right now it was tender.

“Are you hurt, lord?” Ingold asked.

“No,” Éomer said. “Just tender from holding Gwidor restrained. I must be growing old and soft; the bars were so much harder than I seem to recall. But be that as it may,” he shot a glance at Bergil. The youth sat slumped in his chair. His eyes were closed and his eyelashes seemed unnaturally dark against his skin. Éomer sighed. “I am not the one we need worry about.”

Bergil did not open his eyes but he was awake, for he answered.

“I will be fine once the room stops spinning.”

Ingold gave a sound that could only signify disbelief, echoed by Éomer. Bergil must have heard them. He continued:

“I _have_ hit my head before, and the headache will be gone in a few days’ time. Before your bruise fades, I wager, lord of horses.” He swallowed. Then he lifted his head and opened his eyes. He turned to Éomer.

“Targon will not live.”

It was a statement; put so quietly and calmly that Éomer at first could not tie the words and the pale face in front of him together in his mind.

“I fear not,” he answered when he heard the meaning. “He was stabbed in the gut; I doubt even the best healer could save him. Unless Asteth can stop the bleeding, he will bleed out before the day.” _And that might be kinder_.

Bergil closed his eyes again and rested his head on the high back of the chair.

“I saw the King bring lord Faramir back from death,” he said. “He was burning, burning up from the inside and they could not pull him out. But _he_ just called him, and Faramir came back.”

Éomer had his own memories of that day, but he had seen the wound.

“Had the lord Aragorn been here, he still could not save Targon, I fear. Not unless he could make flesh grow, and blood replace itself.”

“I should have recognised him.” Bergil did not move or open his eyes again. “He said he served in the Citadel Guard. With… I should have known him. I should have recognised him when first I saw him.” He turned and looked at Éomer again. “Why did I not know him?”

“He made it his trade not to be known.”

“But he knew me.”

“From what I know,” Éomer replied, “he was a quartermaster; you would not have seen him often, even if he was in the same company.” Éomer considered the young man for a moment. He turned to Cearl who had not spoken since they arrived at the Mansion.

“Will you take Bergil back to the room? He should rest, and we do not need his memory of the City for the rest of the plans. But come back as swiftly as you can; you will leave as soon as we have confirmed and finished our plans.”

Cearl bowed and helped Bergil out of the room. The door closed behind them.

“He is too young to have served in the Guard,” Ingold said.

“He did not,” Éomer answered the unspoken question. “His father did. He was in the same company as Targon, before he was lost. Beregond marched with the army and never returned from the Black Gate. Bergil does not often speak of him.”

Ingold merely nodded. Few ever spoke of those that were lost.

Éomer sent Ingold to keep an eye on the door; it would not do to be surprised by yet another spy, though he doubted that there were others left, and none as dangerous as Gwidor. But Ingold could tell Borondir and Fastred what they needed to know on the way, and that would save time. Éomer himself went to find Aduiar. It could not take that long to find a few maps.

It was not difficult to find the mayor. Of course it helped that he had told them where he was going, but also Éomer heard the voices. They were loud enough to be heard, but not loud enough that he could hear what they were talking about. He recognised Fastred’s voice with Aduiar’s, and that was a relief; Éomer had feared that Fastred would not be convinced to trust the mayor easily. The two men seemed to talk peacefully enough.

Éomer opened the door and stepped into the room. Neither of the men saw him; Fastred was too intent on the mural before him, and Aduiar watched Fastred.

“I fear for the king,” he heard Fastred say. He had known this, of course, but Éomer had not realised how much this bothered Fastred. That Elfhelm worried, he knew. That his sister worried, she made sure that he knew. He even knew that his men always made sure that he was protected, if it was within their power, but this was their duty. In Fastred’s voice he heard a fear he did not expect.

Éomer missed Aduiar’s reply, but he marked Fastred’s next words.

“He has already decided to go to Minas Tirith. I knew as soon as we heard the news that he wanted to go, even knowing what the orc said. He would want to go even if he knew for certain that there is a trap waiting for him. And if he falls, the lady, his sister, and Elfhelm will never forgive me.”

That concern Éomer could understand.

“He is not even wed; his line may be broken before it even begins. If not for his sister-son, I do not think Elfhelm would ever let him leave Wellinghall, let alone the Huorns' Guard.”

Fastred fell silent for a while. He was still turned away from the door, but Aduiar had by now seen the king. He did not, however, give Éomer away. Then Fastred turned.

“I did not know that my lack of a wife was such an interesting subject that it would make two grown men tarry so,” Éomer said.

Fastred was unable to answer.

“It is, of course,” Éomer continued, “comforting to know that my men take such interest in my well-being, but we do not have time for courting or match-making even if there should be any suitable ladies close by.”

“The lack of an heir will always cause concern, lord king,” Aduiar answered. “And it is not a jesting matter.”

“Even if I die today, my people will have a leader, and a king,” Éomer answered. “My sister-son will rule after me, should I die before I father a son. I have more pressing concerns than the pursuit of a wife.”

“Had you tens of sons, I would still fear for you if you go to the Mundburg, my King,” Fastred said. His voice was quiet. Éomer regarded him in silence.

“I will take care,” he finally said. “I will take no unnecessary risks, but I will not turn back.”

Fastred bowed. “As you say, Sire.”

…

Húrin listened to the ground. It was one of the first things he had learned as a Ranger: the ground carried tidings to those that knew how to listen. He had learned to listen to the sound of the earth, discerning the steps of two-legged creatures from four-legged. It was not difficult. Most animals made little sound compared to Men or Orcs; Hobbits and Elves he had little need of tracking. At the moment the trail was clear and fresh, but the track of the servant-girl had left the forest paths and entered the road. He did not want to meet others, so he listened.

Húrin rose. He brushed damp earth from his hands and cheek. He had felt no other footsteps near, none but his prey, and he could sense no other presences. He might still be seen, for his sense was no surety, but he had little choice. He had to catch the girl.

“Ah, Bergil,” he muttered. “You will not like this.” He stepped out from the trees and onto the road.

To his left, the road turned back west to Calembel. Oak-trees hid the view of the fields east of the town, and thick ferns grew at the side of the road. To the east the road ran towards Ethring. There were still a few trees that way, but they thinned quickly. Up a small hill the road ran, and beyond, though Húrin could not yet see it, the land was open and flat. Húrin turned east and began to walk.

He had the long legs of his people, and in his life he had walked more than he had ridden; he reached the top of the hill quickly. From there he could se the road stretched out before him, and on the plains below movement. Someone small was moving there. The girl.

It took Húrin no more than half an hour to overtake her. She was out of breath and her movements stiff, unused to such races. Húrin had hardly broken a sweat. He expected her to stop, to give up and walk back with him, too frightened to protest. Or to plead with him. She did neither. She continued to move with a strange half-run, stumbling and twisting out of reach whenever he tried to intercept her.

“I tire of this, girl. You can not evade me,” but his words fell on deaf ears. She slipped past him again, doggedly waking on, and his patience ran out.

“Cease this foolishness. _Now_!”

He grabbed her wrist. She tried to twist away, but he had held on to stronger creatures than she. “You will return with me,” he said.

“No!” She fought him, but she was too small to reach even his shoulders. He caught the other hand and held her until she tired. She stilled when she understood that he would not let her go.

“Please,” she said. “He will harm me.”

Húrin shook his head. “It is too late for pleas,” he said. “But you need not come to any harm. Come; you have much to explain.”

One last ploy she had. Like a stubborn child trying to get its parents to yield to its will, she slumped to the ground, refusing to put any weight on her feet. Refusing to stand or move. But Húrin had no more patience left. When the girl refused to walk herself, he simply picked her up and threw her over his shoulder. She was small and light enough– he had carried back fallen prey heavier than her. She screamed.

“I will gag you if I must,” Húrin said. “I will let you walk, if you wish to, but you _will_ return with me.”

They reached a compromise of sorts: she kept quiet, but Húrin had to carry her. Judging by her stumbling gait earlier, he guessed that it would be faster anyway.

Faster, but more suspicious. He needed to get off the road before he was seen. Even in these days, a man carrying off a girl would raise questions he did not wish to answer. And he did not trust the girl to stay quiet if there was a chance for her to get away. He did not trust the fear he sensed in her to be for the Enemy’s soldiers, rather than for himself. On the plains, hidden eyes could see far. Húrin broke into an easy trot.

It did not stay easy. Before he reached the top of the hill, he could feel the strain. His breath was still even, but the girl felt like a dead prey would, and her weight belied her small stature. Húrin no longer doubted that she was a grown woman; no girl would feel this heavy. His anger stirred again. Bergil would not like it. He did not like it himself.

…

Six men sat in Aduiar’s office. The room had not been made to hold that many, but Aduiar did not want to use one of the larger rooms. They were all, with the exception of the one with the mural, empty and full of dust. There had been little use for them while he was mayor, and he liked the smaller, cosier rooms better. Visitors were few.

On his desk, maps of the White City lay spread. He had several, though only one was official. _It_ was of limited use for their movements in the City, but it was the largest and it showed the Pelennor and the land around the West Road as well.

“I remembered correctly,” Éomer said. “There is a small wood here,” he pointed, “west of the Rammas Echor. It is a bit further away than I would have liked, but if we have a small camp there, it is a shorter ride from there to the Stonewain Valley. We should be able to lose pursuit in the Drúadan forest. If the Wild Men are still there, they might even help us, as they did before.”

“The Drúadan forest is likely our best option anyway,” Borondir said. “Any other road is too open. Even the speed of horses of Rohan will not help us long. If the Enemy sends his dreadful servants on Winged Beasts, we will need the shelter of the trees.”

“And someone that can resist his servants,” Aduiar added. “They drive both men and horses mad with fear, I have heard.”

“Do you know if he will send any of them?” Éomer asked.

“No, I have not heard. But if he does, my guess is that he will not send more than one or two. The Master of Isengard is said to be uncomfortable in their presence.” Aduiar gave a wry smile. “Perhaps you should send for your sister? She does not mind their presence, if the stories are true.”

“Éowyn is not leaving Fangorn forest,” Éomer said. His eyes flashed, and Aduiar made note not to jest on that subject again.

“The Mayor’s words have merit,” Borondir said. “We will need help against the Nazgûl, should they be sent. The Halfling might perhaps …”

“Neither he not my sister is coming; I will not risk any of them. Though Master Holdwine fights well enough, we need swift riders. No, neither of them would help us now, I fear. But there is one that could. Lord Glorfindel is said to have had the power to drive the _dwimmerlaik_  away, and I do not think he would want to wait for our return. He and Elfhelm should be able to lay their own plans for our escape, once they know where they can find us.”

The others nodded, all but Fastred, who still had misgivings, and Cearl who had no place approving or disapproving his king’s decision.

“If there is nothing more that needs to be spoken…”

“Sire, “ Fastred said. “One thing. The girl, if she does manage to alert a patrol, or reach a garrison town, then what?”

“You know, as well as I, Fastred, that we may have to withdraw,” Éomer said. “Or at least make other plans, plans that do not require all of us.”

“She has no reason to suspect me, or Borondir,” Aduiar said. “But if she overheard the innkeeper talk with your men…”

“I was there too, Lord Mayor,” Borondir said. “You would be the only one she could not bear witness against.”

“If she worked with Gwidor, I would be under suspicion as well.” Aduiar stood. Had there been room, he would have walked; walking always cleared his mind. “I would probably be able to refute any charges Gwidor might have sent through her, now that he cannot bring them himself, but I would be watched. Without Borondir there to help, there will be little I can do by myself, and none of the Faithful will trust me.”

“There are others we can send.” Ingold had not spoken much after they resumed their planning. “If we do not at least try, we will have lost too much, for no gain.”

“Who would you suggest?” Aduiar asked. “None of those that were arrested this winter could do it. If I am under suspicion, they would be too.”

That gave them pause. Though the Faithful in Calembel were more numerous than in many other towns, most of them were too old or too young. Or women. Not many could be sent on a rescue.

“What of Asteth?” Borondir asked. “None would think that she would be involved in any rescue.”

“An old widow?” Fastred shook his head. “None would suspect her, that is true, but for good reasons! She is too old to carry out a rescue, even if she had been a man.”

“But she might bring word to others that can.” Éomer smiled. “If the Enemy can use a girl to spy, we can use an old woman as messenger. Both Damrod and Mablung know her, and on her word they might come to trust Aduiar. The rest of us can find our way to Drúadan forest, and lie in wait there.”

It was the best they could plan for before Húrin returned and they knew more. Éomer was confident that the Ranger could overtake her. The only thing that left for them was to find out what they should do with the body of Gwidor, and what story they should tell to explain his absence. That decision they left for Aduiar and Borondir. Ingold was sent to prepare provisions for the messenger to the leaders in Fangorn, Cearl to ready his horse.

Cearl had little to prepare. With his horse newly shod, he checked it more carefully than usual; making sure that it had no sore or warm spots. At any other time of year, he would have preferred to keep it unshod, but the hooves were soft from the snow. They had had no time to harden, and a sore-footed horse would not make it to Fangorn in time. They could not risk that.

“How is he?” Éomer asked.

“His legs are cool, Sire,” Cearl answered. “They are a not as dry as they use to be, and I think he is a little stiff, but that is most likely from being stabled, not shod. If I start out easy, he should loosen up quickly enough.”

“Good,” Éomer said. He handed Cearl a small bundle wrapped in leather. “Take this. Perhaps Glorfindel has heard news of the owners, but even if not, I would not risk bringing them with us.” It was the dagger and the star Fastred had found on the dying orc.

“My lord.” Cearl did not know what else to say. He bowed to Éomer.

“ _Ferthu hál_ ,” the king said. “May the _mearas_ lend your steed speed, and Béma hide you from our enemies’ eyes. Go by the shortest way, and fear not.”

Cearl bowed again. Without a word he turned and led his horse from the stable. Éomer did not follow him out. Did not follow to see him mount or hear the last admonitions Fastred gave. Did not see him leave. He stayed in the empty stables, hoping they had chosen right.

…

Húrin needed a break. Ranger or no, used to hardship or not: he needed a break. The girl did not fight him, but she just hung there, like dead weight, and if he had not known better, he could have sworn that she grew heavier with each step he took. He paused briefly to look around.

Water trickled up from the moss underneath his feet. Above him the canopy of the trees sprouted small leaves, giving it a veiled green. Not enough to hide the sky, but enough to give some shade and hopefully hide them from the eyes of birds. Húrin saw no birds of prey, but he could hear the songs of smaller birds around. _Spring,_ they sang. _Spring!_ The air was full of moss and spring-leaves and water-scent, of sun-warmed earth and growing things. The oaks and ash-trees stood tall amid smaller birches, the shivering aspen and the silver elms spread around the streams. He drew in the scent.

The girl on his shoulder stiffened.

“Are you sniffing me?”

“What?”

“You are! You, you… let me go!” she demanded. She began to fight. Húrin could have laughed, but one flailing arm caught him across the face. The angle was awkward and there was no power behind it, still… he had complained that she was deadweight? Kicking and screaming was far worse. He tightened his hold on her.

It only made her fighting worse.

“Stop fighting,” he gritted through clenched teeth. She did not listen. He would have preferred a dryer spot, but she would have herself to blame; he flung her from his shoulder and down on the ground, following her down to straddle her and hold her still until she relented.

She did at once.

Limp once more, she did not speak, she did not look at him. Her eyes were closed and her breath was shallow and fast. Húrin waited, wanting to make sure she would not strike out again. Waiting for her to catch her breath and look at him.

Moisture seeped into the fabric on his knees. For each silent moment that passed, the girl’s breath grew more and more agitated until the silence was broken by her sobs. Had Húrin witnessed the scene, he would have pulled himself off, demanded to know what he was doing, if she was unharmed.

He dared not trust her tears to be real.

And so he waited until finally she _did_ calm. A little.

“Go on,” she said. Her voice was small. Broken.

“Look at me,” he said. “ _Look at me_.”

She did.

“I do not trust you,” he said. “And I _will_ bring you back to Calembel, but you need not fear me.”

“I know men. You were _sniffing_ me.”

“I smelled the air. I had all but forgotten you were there.” It was a small lie: how could he forget deadweight that grew heavier for each step? But it was close enough to the truth. “I have no interest in children.”

“Then let me go.”

“I will let you up if you do not try to run. It will be fruitless effort anyway, but I do not wish to waste time going after you.”

He did not wait for her answer. He was wet enough, and she must be wetter. He kept his hold on one wrist and lifted her with him when he rose. “Now will you walk or shall I continue to carry you?”

“I’ll walk.”

And she did.

Despite her surrender, they moved slower, for her short legs could not keep up with Húrin’s longer. She stumbled beside him, muttering to herself. He never let go of her wrist.

His patience wore out after they had stopped again for a short rest. Too many rests, and she moved slower after each. He sped up, no longer caring that she had to run to keep up, not caring that he dragged her along. And she silenced her mutterings, and kept up with fewer stumbles.

It was dark when they reached Calembel. Small lights from the windows showed the way, and Húrin could see the shape of someone standing at the gate, but nothing more.

He would have to trust to luck, and the planning of Éomer king.

Both held. It was Borondir standing there, and together they took the girl to the mayor’s house.

She did not have much to tell them, but Éomer was reassured that there were no other agents of their enemies in the town, and that no words had reached Ethring or beyond.

Gwidor had been given over for burial; the story was that he had attacked and wounded the Mayor’s servant, and in turn been killed in the ensuing fight. It was true enough, even if not the whole story. Éomer was satisfied with that, though Aduiar feared he would need a more thorough story later. Gwidor’s masters would inquire after him.

“Then you tell the truth,” Éomer said. “He was killed by a rebel in the execution of his duty.”

…

Targon died that night.

Bergil sat with him, alone until Aduiar came near the end. The mayor did not say much, but he sat beside the bed while Targon bled out; Asteth had not been able to stop the bleeding. At one point Aduiar brought out a dried leaf of an herb from inside his shirt and stared at it, as if it held some mystery that, once solved, would stop the bleeding. Grow flesh. Replace blood.

“You used to share your thoughts with me,” Targon said.

“I will miss it,” Aduiar answered. “In time you learned when to let me speak my thoughts to the end, and when to offer advice. I do not wish to train another, it is too much bother. I will have to do without a servant.”

“A mayor needs a servant,” Targon said.

“No,” Aduiar said. “He needs a friend.”

Targon smiled. “Then tell me you will find one, one day.”

“I already did.”

“You will find one again.” Targon paused. “Tell me one thing, if you will not share your thoughts. Tell me that you will succeed. Tell me that you will free the King, and make sure Beregond’s son will live to know him.”

“I found this in the kitchen,” Aduiar said. “It hung up under the roof to dry among the other herbs. I have not seen it before, but they taught me to recognise it when I was given my first position. It is forbidden. Just finding it underneath my roof would have given Gwidor more damning proof than he could have wished for. I do not know why he did not find it; perhaps he was not taught how.”

He paused, and Targon spoke in his pause.

“Was my other wish too hard to grant? Then tell me,” he went on, “tell me that you will send young Bergil safely home. After me there will be none left from my company; Beregond’s son will be the last to remember us.”

“It is kingsfoil,” Aduiar continued as if Targon had not spoken. “A most curious herb, spun with myths and strange beliefs. Orcs shun the smell of it, but Men find the scent wholesome, if the stories are to be believed. And it is said that in the right hands, it can lure even the dying away from death’s door. “

Targon’s chuckle turned into a cough. Bergil helped him to sit up and supported him until the cough died out.

“Is there anything you want?” Aduiar did not quite know what to do, and _that_ was rare.

Targon shook his head. “Nothing I have not already voiced.” There were flecks of blood on his lips.

“No!” Bergil saw the flecks as well, and knew their meaning.

“You hardly know me, son of Beregond,” Targon said. His voice was much stronger than would be suspected after the coughing. “Why such distress?”

“You knew my father. You served with him.”

“Yes.”

“Did you see him fall?”

“No. I could not have,” Targon answered. “I did not march to the Black Gate; I was left in the City as was most of the Tower Guard.” Bergil said nothing to that, but Targon saw his unspoken question.

“Unless your father had left the City with those that fled, he would not have survived the attack. Our company held the Gate. We were the first to fall. I was there, and none of us walked away from that field.”

“You are not dead.”

“I will be.” Targon paused. The tale was painful, but soon he would not be left to tell it. And none would remember those that died.

“The sky was dark,” he said. “Even like the Dawnless Day where we against all hope triumphed. But we had sent our allies away, sent the Riders away; the black ships away, and no King would come and drive the darkness off.

“We had asked for the place of honour and peril: to hold the damaged gates against our foe until we could no longer fight, until we could no longer breathe, for those, we vowed, were one and the same. And it was granted us.

“I stood inside the gate, where the attack would come when our archers had shot their last arrows. Two rows of men stood before me, shields raised, and I was ready with my spear, to stab at the enemy from behind the shields.

“We heard when the attack began. The blowing horns, the wailing blasts of trumpets and the cries of orcs and men. How long the archers held them off, I do not know, nor do I know how many they felled, but far too soon, with far too many, the enemy was upon us.

“We held.

“For a time we held, and the clashing of arms and the cries of wounded deafened me until I could no longer hear it. I stabbed, and stabbed and stabbed again. I twisted out of reach from their weapons, and I stabbed and stabbed. I knew nothing else, could not feel the cuts and scrapes I received. The only warning of the wound that scarred my face was the blood that blinded my eye; I did not feel the pain.

“The pain came later, when the enemy passed and I lay half buried beneath my fallen companions. I could not move, but I could see them pass unchallenged. To this day I do not know what pain was worse: the one that held my body or the one that racked my soul.” He stopped and coughed. The Mayor held a cup of water to his lips and he drank.

“I do not know why I was spared. I saw them kill the wounded, but they passed me by. Perhaps I looked dead to them. With my face covered in blood, I guess I could have looked dead. I lay still, and watched them pass.

“I lay there for a long time. Many passed, but I had no strength to rise. Far above me, I could hear the fight continue, further and further away, and still their soldiers passed by, until the din of battle was weak. Then, last of all, their Commander came, the dark Lieutenant of Barad-dûr. Around him, the orcs were still, so eerily unlike their kind. I was sure that they would hear me breathe, and find me; I half prayed it would be so, that I would die among my fallen friends. But they, too, passed, and I was left alone.

“I might have dozed, too tired to stay awake. I do not know how long, but I heard feet, running down from the upper levels of the City. ‘Tis one of the boys,’ I thought. ‘Running errands for the healers, they will find me. They will take me away.’ I did not think clearly then. All the boys were gone, as I well knew, but I had forgotten.

“Two runners came– small, whining orcs. Their black tongues hanging from their mouths. They passed. I listened for more, hoping, since I could do nothing more, that they were but the first to flee, and knowing they were not. Then back they came, with others of their kind.

“I could not understand their shouts, but one stumbled and fell to his knees, right before my eyes. It was no Orc I saw, it was a Man. His hands were tied and blood had crusted at his side, dark and old. It stained his clothes of Blue and White. His face was pale and drawn. Then he was dragged to his feet and pushed along. Behind them they dragged a second man, bound as the first with a hood drawn over his face; I could not see it, but I saw the gem.”

He paused again. His strength was almost spent.

“When they found me, the Steward had surrendered. The healers patched me up so I could live, but I have ever after worn the scars of that day.”

He closed his eyes. He had no more to say, and a great weariness had crept up on him as he spoke. He felt, more than heard, Aduiar’s quiet request that Bergil fetch the old woman, and the king. Then the voice turned to him, and he could hear it clearer.

“Linger just a little,” Aduiar said. “Listen: we will free the King. Bergil son of Beregond will live. But I will never find a listener like you.

“Here,” he placed something in Targon’s hand, put it on his chest, “take this. The people say it wards from evil, even in death. That even in death, the herb brings life.”

Targon opened his eyes. The kingsfoil smelled, he thought, of the sea and green growing grass and salty air in the morning breeze. “You never spoke what did not come true,” he said. “Not even to a dying man.” He smiled, and never spoke again.

…

When Húrin returned with the girl, and it became clear that she had spoken to none, Fastred was sent, under protest, back to the cave to meet the men. What food they had been able to barter, they would send with the three remaining Riders across the border, as they had planned before. They would move slower, but they should be able to reach Fangorn before the food ran out. The two Rangers and the man of Gondor would go with Fastred to rejoin Éomer on the road east of Calembel.

Fastred was not happy to go and leave his king with just one man, and a wounded boy. But one must go, and though Éomer did not say it was an order, Fastred knew he could not disobey. He was readying the horses, his own mare the last, and had just finished tightening the girt when Éomer joined him in the stable.

“I have one more task for you,” the king said.

“Sire,” Fastred said. “I am yours to command.”

Éomer ignored his terse tone. “I did not speak of it before, because until a moment ago I did not know. Borondir spoke to me; he is certain that he will not be able to return here, whether our plans succeed or not.”

“That is probably true, sire” Fastred said. “Ingold and the mayor too will not.”

“They have no wife.” Éomer sighed. “I would not have him come, if any other might serve as well, but he has asked to come, and for Aduiar to come with all new men, would seem suspicious. His wife, too, urged him to go.”

“She is a stout woman. Most would rather keep their husbands out of harm’s way.”

“And even more the father of their child.”

At first Fastred could find no words, and when he did not speak, his king spoke on instead.

“He asks that you will take her with you. We will find them some room in Fangorn, or at some other, secret place when we return.”

“You are sending me away as well? My King, in this I must disobey; I can not leave you. If nothing else, the Lady Éowyn, your sister, will never let me live.”

“Calm yourself!” The king waited for him to calm, and Fastred straightened. He fixed his eyes on the wall behind the king.

“Better,” Éomer said. “Do not so readily think the worst; I merely wish you to escort her to the cave; the Riders can take her the rest of the way. It will attract less attention from Isengard’s spies to have them travel with a woman, and she can help with the horses.”

Fastred bowed his head. “I am sorry, my lord. But this endeavour carries more risks than I would like to take with my King.”

“You worry, I know. But you are more jumpy than you usually are, and I do not understand. Have you suddenly lost all faith in me that you think that I will act in reckless abandon? I know my duty to my people.”

What could he answer to that? Fastred stared at the wall, not sure if he could meet the eyes of his king if he was ordered to. _Just tell him_ , a voice whispered in his mind. _He will understand_. But he had never trusted to strange voices, and he had never before had dreams. It was the provenience of the Dúnedain, not the Eorlingas.

“Now?”

Éomer demanded an answer, and Fastred knew he owed him one.

“Éomer king,” he said. “I will never lose faith in you. But I need not be a seer to know that we will all be in danger. Even the trip to Calembel has always been a risk, but to travel several days through Gondor… the danger will grow, and the Mundburg will be full of soldiers. I just wish that you did not go yourself, sire.”

“He is my friend, Fastred,” Éomer said. “And he bought our escape with his own freedom. Even so, I would not abandon my duty to the Eorlingas if I though that the risk was too great. There will be many people in Minas Tirith, and it will be easier for us to hide in the crowd.”

“Our hair will be noticed. It has already caused more trouble than we reckoned when we left Fangorn.”

“Then we will hide it.” Éomer fell silent for a moment. He watched Fastred who still had not relaxed his stance.

“One more thing I will ask of you,” he said.

“Sire.”

“If the men have not been able to buy enough food, we will need to think of something. If necessary, have one of the Riders return with you with the packhorses that have no burden. We might be able to barter more provisions further east. One of the Rangers will have to forego this quest and help bring the food back.”

Fastred relaxed, and Éomer smiled. “I have not forgotten our plight,” he said. “And I trust you to not forget either. But you will not be able to order any of the Dúnedain to turn back; better leave that to Húrin or me.”

“As you wish,” was Fastred’s reply.

Éomer helped him change the tack of the packhorse so that Adulas could ride. They were going to bring some of the pelts with them and leave the rest. The mayor had found some supplies to send, but it was not much, and the horse could carry both her and it if they loaded some of the food on Fastred’s mare. Sheaccepted the extra burden with patience, if not with grace.

All was ready when Borondir and his wife arrived. They were followed by Húrin and Ingold, and between them, Sedil, the servant-girl. Ingold looked nervous, Húrin’s expression was impossible to tell.

“I have a request, Lord Rodhaer,” Ingold said. “I would ask that Sedil be brought with your men when they leave.”

“Why?” Éomer asked.

“I am reluctant to leave her here,” Ingold answered. “And the mayor shares my reluctance. We cannot send her to another town, for she is likely to give us away, but thought there are cells in the barracks, we have little recourses to hold a prisoner there for long. Anyone accused of crimes where always sent on to Ethring or further to Pelargir.”

“Our safest option would be to kill her,” Húrin said. He looked at the king, not the girl, though he watched her through the corner of his eyes, wary lest she would try to run. In turn she did not look at him. She kept her head down, and inched closer to Ingold.

“Is that your advice, Húrin?” Éomer regarded the Ranger. He looked calm, but grim. “Would you kill her?”

A twitch– or was it a wince? – passed over Húrin’s face. He shook his head, but his answer, when he gave it, was “Yes.”

“I would rather not,” he continued. “But unless we send her away, I see no other option. I do not trust her.”

“You do not trust her,” Éomer repeated. “Does that distrust warn you against sending her to Fangorn, to Wellinghall where are gathered our leaders and those we would most protect?”

Húrin shrugged. “The Enemy knows that we hide in Fangorn, and he has left it to his slave to deal with us. Should the orcs of Isengard break through the Huorns’ Guard, they will find us in the end, be it soon or late. Whether she should escape to reveal the paths to Wellinghall or not, will make little difference. The greatest risk is that she would reveal how many of our leaders are gathered there, but already she knows too much. And she is more likely to escape from one of our hiding-places outside the Guard.”

“And we can ill afford to lose even one of them.” Éomer paused. He turned to the girl.

“Look at me,” he told her. She did not raise her head. “Look at me!”

Slowly, slowly she lifted her head, reluctant to face the king. But she did meet his eyes.

“Will you try to escape or give away my men if I send you with them?”

“No.” Her voice was sullen.

“You are lying,” Éomer said. “I surround myself with truth. I know its flavour; I know when I am lied to.”

She did not answer. Éomer turned to Fastred.

“Do you think you, and later the men, will be able to guard her?” he asked. “Will she be a risk?”

“She is one girl. A small one. Just one of us should manage.” _A child_ , he thought. _The Enemy uses children_.

“She can cause more trouble than you think,” Húrin warned. “She is no child, thought she looks like one.”

It was Bergil that spared them from the choice. He came, looking for Éomer as the mayor had asked, and found them all in the stables behind the barracks.

“You should not be here,” was the first thing Éomer said when he saw him. Húrin turned, and gave his agreement to the king’s words.

“You should be resting.”

“The mayor sent me,” he answered. “There was no else to send.” He hesitated for a moment, not wanting to say it, as if he somehow could stave it off by lingering. “It is Targon…” Then he saw the girl.

She saw him too. Saw the cut on his forehead. She did not turn away, but, unlike in her defiance to the king, she did not meet his eyes.

“Sedil?”

“Who hurt you?” she asked.

“I think you know,” Húrin interrupted.

Her eyes flickered at that. “He hurt you…”

“Why are you here?” Bergil asked.

“I am sorry,” she said. She moved towards him. Húrin reached out to hold her back, but Éomer stopped him. She stood before Bergil and lifted her hand to touch the wound, still not looking in his eyes.

“I did not think that _you_ would be hurt.”

“Sedil,” he said again. “Why are you here?”

Then, finally, she looked at him, at his face, at his eyes, and something changed and softened. Éomer, well used to horses’ way of talking – horses tell no lies – smiled to see it. She turned to the king and answered him anew:

“No.”

He nodded. Without more words – no more were needed – Fastred took the women with him and rode to meet the men.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning: character death
> 
> Notes:  
> Holdwine: Merry’s Rohirric name. See RotK Many Partings
> 
> Dwimmerlaik: Rohirric name for the Nazgûl


	11. Leave-takings.

 Targon was dead by the time Éomer reached the room. Aduiar did not say much, but there was little to say.

“Though we linger to mid-day, we will still reach the City in time.”

Éomer agreed. It would give them time to bury Targon before they left, and arrange what would be needed. He left Aduiar with his servant, and took Bergil with him.

“I have seen death before,” Bergil protested as Éomer shut the door behind them. “I have even helped prepare the dead.”

“You hit your head hard,” Éomer replied, “and you need to rest. Húrin will take a look before you sleep.”

“He knew my father; I should be there with him.”

Éomer stopped and turned to face the young man. His eyes gleamed in the light of the candles that lit the hall. Bergil nearly walked into him, and the youth looked up at the man. The king.

“Aduiar worked with Targon for more than seven years,” he said. “He was his only confidant, and the only, save myself and Glorfindel, that knew his true alliance. His claim far precedes yours.”

“I… I just hoped that he could tell me something of my father,” Bergil said. “And he did not. Not really, and now he is dead. Because he would not let Gwidor kill me. I owe him something.”

_And you do not know if your father was even buried._ Éomer kept his thoughts to himself, but his eyes softened. “I believe he would be happy knowing that you will live. And I think he also wanted us to save the lord Aragorn. For that we need you well; therefore you should rest. We must leave tomorrow, and we must travel fast with little chance to rest on the road. You would not wish to slow us down, would you?”

“No, sire,” Bergil answered.

It might have prevented talk if they all had returned to their rooms at the inn, but it was late and the mayor had rooms to spare. Éomer did not want Bergil to walk too far, and Ingold had declared that the inn would be shut in preparations for the trip. It had long been known that Ingold had been chosen to accompany the mayor as a representative of the town, and none questioned his decision. The absence of the travellers would hopefully go unnoticed.

Húrin decided to share Bergil’s room. He looked at him, and was concerned that the young man might take a turn for the worse during the night. “He will probably be fine,” he told Éomer, “but he has not had enough rest, and tomorrow will be hard enough on him. I want to be close, just in case.”

Éomer agreed. “Is there anything you need?” he asked. “Asteth is gone home, but she left some of her supplies behind.”

“She left them so that we could bring them with us,” Húrin answered. “And I fear we will have need of them later.” He did not voice his fear; Éomer understood it well enough. _We do not know what condition_ he _might be in._

“I am just a little lightheaded,” Bergil called from inside the room. “You need not speak of me as if I can’t hear.”

“You should be sleeping.”

“It takes a little longer than a few moments to fall asleep,” Bergil answered. He muttered something about loud noises outside his door not helping.

“I heard that,” Húrin said. “Speaking does not help; be quiet and close your eyes, and you will sleep in a few moments. Though I must have been amiss in your training; any Ranger, or soldier worth his salt, should be able to sleep whenever he can. Be a good lad and close your eyes now.” He ignored Bergil’s protest that he was not a child and reassured Éomer that they all should rest. “If I find that there is something I need, I will be able to get it myself.”

It took more than moments for Bergil to sleep. He did not toss and turn as one often does when sleep will not come, but Húrin could hear that his breath was too short and shallow for true sleep. It seemed that lying in the dark did not help sleep to come, nor did the silence of the house. Though Húrin would have slept if he was alone, he did not want to fall asleep before the boy. He rose and lit one of the candles.

Bergil tried, but despite his weariness, sleep did not come. His head hurt, a dull, pounding ache that made it hard to think. And the room was moving. Round and round, up and down. He had never been on a boat, but if he had but once felt the movement of the waves underneath his feet, he would have likened it to that. And the room was spinning too, and he was falling.

A hand touched his shoulder. Light and firm. “How are you? I can hear that you do not sleep.”

He kept his eyes shut against the light he felt. “I will sleep soon. It just takes some time.” He swallowed. Then: “The room will not stand still, and my head hurts, that is all.”

“You have not told me. Why?”

“You can not stop it. Why bother?”

Húrin sighed. “Can you sit up?”

But movement made the room spin more, made him feel ill, and he told Húrin no. Húrin sighed again, and left.

He found his way to the kitchen. Above the door and all around the wall, the cook had hung dried herbs, and some of them might help Bergil. Húrin lifted the candle to see. There he found sweet mint– it would help against the nausea– but he found little else. The mint was dry, but much as he would have preferred it fresh, it would serve. He found the hearth cold, but wood was piled beside it and he lit a fire to heat water. Fresh water he found, and filled a cup. It would help a little while the rest could warm to boil. He took it to carry back up to the room.

He hardly made it out the door, before he met the mayor.

“Húrin,” the mayor said. “I did not expect to meet you here. Could you not sleep?”

“My sleep was not the problem,” Húrin answered. “But was there someone else you expected to meet, or is it just I that was not expected to walk the halls tonight?”

The mayor smiled. “Indeed I half expected Targon when I heard the noise.” The smile did not reach his eyes, and Húrin thought he recognised that smile. He wore it himself whenever he recalled a fond memory of his brother, ten years gone.

“Silly, of course, since I have just laid out his corpse.” The mayor smiled again. “Is there anything I can do to help? I would be a most terrible host if I did not help my guests to sleep. It is such a basic need, so simple, and yet without it we can barely work. The road is not too long tomorrow, yet I fear we will be late enough.”

“It is Bergil, Master Aduiar. He could not sleep for headaches and queasiness; I went to see if I could find some herbs to help him.”

“And you did not?”

“Oh yes, I did, though nothing more than dry mint. I put water to boil – it should help him feel less ill at least.”

Aduiar nodded. “I also find fresh ginger helps,” he offered. “But headaches it does little to avail.”

“I did not find anything that could,” Húrin admitted. “And I do not want to use what little Asteth left behind. I fear our later need will be greater than our present.” He noticed the herb Aduiar was holding in his hand.

“Where did you find the _athelas_?”

“The what?”

“That herb,” he said. “ _Athelas_. From what I heard it has not been in much use in Gondor.”

“You mean the kingsfoil? I have heard no other name, thought it does not surprise me that you know it. It is forbidden, now, but some keep it still. The cook had hung these to dry. I have heard of its wonders, but I do not know the truth behind the stories. I had thought to bring it with me, but I fear the danger would be too great. If it was found on any of us, it would be more damning than the knife Gwidor found.”

“I know it,” Húrin said. “Our Chieftain used it. It used to grow many places in the Wild where the Dúnedain once lived, but the enemy destroys it wherever they can. We try to plant new when we can.”

“Then it is true as they say? Can it heal even the dead?”

“Nothing can heal the dead.” Húrin took the leaves. “We do not use it much, for there are few left that can unlock its powers. I can not, but the Chieftain did. In my hands it would only freshen the room, or cure headache…” He stopped himself and smiled. “You can help after all, it seems,” he said. “I know no better herb to help headaches; perhaps it will help Bergil rest. How much do you have?”

“Some leaves,” Aduiar answered. “Perhaps eight. But should this herb not be saved? If it has powers in the right hands, we might come to need it, despite the danger.”

The mayor was right. Húrin saw that he was right, but it was not all that useful in the wrong hands. And his were not the right ones.

“I would only need one leaf,” was his answer. “And as I said: in my hands the leaves would not do much. In Fangorn it grows willingly, we have found. Among the Elves are those that value it and they sow it wherever they can. Around Wellinghall it grows abounded. We will have more, if we need, when we return there. Besides,” he added, “you were about to leave all of the leaves behind; they would gain us little here.”

“True,” Aduiar said. “I did not think… I must have been confused by lack of sleep. But from what you say, it would be prudent not to leave any behind that we could take. The Enemy fears the kingsfoil enough to have it banned. It must have some powers.”

“In the right hands,” Húrin repeated, “it has. From what I heard, the Chieftain used it to call the Steward and the White Lady back from the Black Breath. That is power the Enemy would not like.”

“There were nine,” Aduiar said. “Nine leaves. But I gave one to Targon ere he died, and I would leave it with him, if I can. Kingsfoil is often put in the graves of those that fought the Enemy to ward them from evil in death. And grant them rest.”

“Then I will take one, and we will bring the remaining seven.”

The water boiled, and Húrin brought all back to the room. Bergil slept when he returned, and he would not wake him. Instead he crushed the leaf and let it fall into the cup of hot water, so the room would be light, and their sleep peaceful and refreshing. That much power he could draw from it. It was a restful night.

…

They buried Targon and Gwidor the next morning. Apart from the gravediggers and those that carried the dead, few people from the town came to witness it. Borondir was there, and the cook. She had worked for the mayor since he and Targon came, and had come to know the servant as well as any could that did not know his true purpose and his task.

She had brought twigs with budding knots of green. No flowers grew yet.

The mayor spoke only those words required of him, and none of the townspeople offered to speak words of remembrance for the dead. Not until Asteth, the widow, stepped forward. She had come as the body of the guard, of Gwidor, was lowered into the ground and the earth was about to be shuffled down into the ground to close the grave.

“The dead should be remembered,” she said. “Regardless of what they did in life.”

The men stepped back, shovels still in hand.

“The man that lies here, was a stranger,” Asteth began. “He came in autumn, and winter was his domain. Like the winter he seemed to us, cold and cruel. A deadly enemy that makes life hard and dangerous as if it was not already cruel enough.

“But now spring comes, when the cold and snow must pass. Deep in the ground the seeds of yesteryear have lasted, sleeping safe from harm. The cruel snow has sheltered them and made them strong, and now the melted water from the ice gives life to all that grows.

“Therefore, do not curse the winter and the snow, for when, in spring, it dies, new life will grow. So may this winter-stranger find his rest, and our hearts regret the cold he met.”

She fell silent, and at a nod, the men came forward with the shovels. They filled the hole, and Aduiar, the mayor, spoke again. The words for Targon’s body – familiar to them that had seen too many deaths – and he was lowered next. The mayor moved to speak, or so it seemed, but no more words came.

“He was so cold, so uncaring,” said some, when the event was spoken of later in the town. “No words for his servant, who had served him loyally for so long.”

But none could hear the silent song, winding from his heart and up, up, up beyond the rooftops and the trees, flying on the air and further, to the darkness that is there, up beyond the circles of the world. They only saw his face, as blank and empty as when they lowered Gwidor to his grave.

The cook spoke. Short, with little art she told that he was ever so polite to her. Helpful to reach the shelves too tall for her: a pleasant man to work with.

And Asteth spoke again. She talked of loyal dogs that die in service of their masters. Guarding, fetching, keeping track of all that could harm or hurt their master. In the end, she wished him rest. She said that they should not forget a loyal heart, faithful to the last.

The earth was filled, and the little group dispersed, drifting away to tend their other work: the fields that still must be prepared, and tilled and sowed before the spring-wet passed.

Aduiar remained.

No one saw him stand alone a long time by the grave with eyes lowered to the ground.

“ _Namárië_.”

The word was whispered, and the sound barely reached his own ears, not beyond. It could not pierce the ground and reach the cold, deaf ears that slept below.

Bergil found him there. He had cried when the body had been taken from the house; Éomer had told him that he could not go with them. Hidden behind the window he had seen the small procession walking through the town, until they disappeared from his sight.

“Too many questions would be asked if any of us came,” Húrin explained, but it still felt wrong.

And wrong it felt to stay in the room, in bed, and rest while the others made preparations to depart. His head felt better, so he tried to tell, but Húrin would not hear of it, and Éomer king as well told him to stay put, and leave all things to them. At least they had let him fetch the Mayor, but when he saw him, he half wished they had not. Éomer’s words from the night before came back to him as he saw the Mayor stand beside the grave, unmoving.

He had to speak, and tell the Mayor they must leave. It was the hardest thing he ever did.

“All is ready, Lord Mayor,” Bergil said. “Lord Rodhaer is drying off his hair and Húrin has the horses ready. Borondir has come too, and Ingold awaits us at the inn.” He paused. The grave had not been marked yet, but on the fresh earth of Targon’s grave, spring-green twigs of birches lay.

“I will miss the scar,” Aduiar said. “Somehow it became to me his being. I grew used to it. If the dead retain their mortal form, I wonder what image he will take; will I know him if the scar does not remain outside this world? It became his mask to hide him from those that might have known him before, but to me it was his face. The only face I ever saw.”

He shrugged, as if casting off a vision or a midnight dream that had lingered to the waking world. He turned to Bergil, and his face and eyes were dry. No trace of any tears. His smile was gentle, maybe sad.

“Come, young Bergil. Targon’s tasks are now behind him, ours are ahead.”

They left the graves, the town, never to return while Sauron ruled.

…

The men had managed to gather supplies for perhaps a month, maybe two if the hunting would go well. Fastred would have wished for more, but in a month or two Fangorn should have wakened from its winter-sleep. They would not starve unless all other food-sources failed, and he could not call off their quest to hunt for more supplies. The Eorlingas would heed him, but not the Rangers, nor the king. And the Eorlingas followed their king, as would he, damn it all.

The woman and the girl shared a horse; the rest would lead the horses, save one rider to scout ahead. It was the best they could do; they had to trust to luck to keep them safe if any enemy patrol should stop them. Better not to be seen, if they could avoid it, and rather take a longer road. Slow was better than not at all.

The three remaining men followed Fastred. They left early, but not by road. Instead they kept to the forest’s edge, hiding from sight as best they could. South of the town they travelled through the wood where Húrin hunted the day before. Just below the hill they camped to wait for Éomer to join them with the rest.

They waited longer than they liked. The Dúnedain were impatient to learn more of the plans than Fastred had revealed, and to hear from Húrin what he had learned. Húrin, not the king, Fastred marked. The man of Gondor, Bragloth, seemed even less calm, but Fastred guessed that the Northern Rangers hid their impatience better than he.

Shortly after midday they heard hoof-beats on the road, and then a piercing birdcall. It was Húrin that pronounced their approach. The sentry called back, and all three remaining men sprang to their feet and gathered their horses. Fastred’s mare came willingly enough at his call; the other horses followed her. She opened her mouth to the bit and was ready to be mounted before the company came in sight.

Húrin rode ahead with Borondir behind him. Then the innkeeper, the mayor and someone with dark hair that Fastred could not remember. He was half hidden by the other two, and his horse could not be seen behind the rest. His stance and manner of movement seemed familiar, but Fastred could not recall his name. At the back rode Bergil. There were no more men.

Where was the king?

In the blink of an eye Fastred was on his horse and sped towards the travellers. The dark-haired man moved his horse to the front, and Fastred slowed. He knew that horse, he knew that man. Éomer king flashed him a crooked smile.

“Did you miss me, or is your mare so eager to be bred that she sped away without your wish?”

Fastred snorted. “It was Firefoot, my lord, that pulled the blots out of the wall to greet the little beauty at your side.” He nodded towards Aduiar’s horse, the small, slender mare that had broken out the day before.

Éomer laughed. “I wondered what had happened,” he said. “He never liked the narrow stalls.” He shook his head. “How did the food-hunt go? Will we have enough to live a little longer?”

“Yes, my lord,” Fastred said. “They have not found as much as we had hoped, but we should manage on short rations a month more, perhaps a little longer if game is found.”

“Good news,” Éomer said. “I would not like to call off this mission now.”

“One question, my lord.”

“Yes?” Éomer’s eyes twinkled.

“Your hair.”

“What about it?”

“My lord, it is dark. And you beard is gone.”

“Yes, so it is. It will attract less attention, though I fear it does not suit me.” Éomer sighed, but there was a sparkle in his eye. “It is well, is it not, that I am not going to Minas Tirith to look for a wife. Then attention would be sought after, not avoided.”

“How?”

Éomer laughed. It was a soft sound, full of warmth. “Ah, Fastred,” he said, “you should be glad I have no jesters in my court; you are too easy a target. Forgive me; the day is too fine for gloom, and yet if I think too hard on the object of our quest, the sunshine turns cold and the birdsong to mockery in my ears.”

“My lord.”

“I do not dismiss your fears as easily as it can seem,” Éomer said. “While there are those with lighter hair among the Men of Gondor, it is rare, and so I have dyed it. The mayor’s cook, old Gildis, provided me with the dye. And the Men of Gondor shave; at least in Minas Tirith they tell me. Easier than dyeing it anyway. If you wish to keep your hair and beard, you can – one straw-head can be explained away – but it would be safer if you followed my example.”

“As soon as I may, sire,” Fastred said. How could he not agree, when he had stressed the danger of detection?

They reached the small camp. Éomer quickly filled the men in on the news and their plan while Fastred tried to give his hair the right colouring. Húrin had to help him shave.

They would travel as far as Ethring as one company, and then split up as soon as the road had rounded the mountain-arm that came out from the White Mountains there. The two Dúnedain Rangers would then cut across the land and travel close to the mountain-range; it was the shorter route measured as the crow would fly, but it had few or no roads. A more hidden route as well, but it would be harder to cross the rivers and the roadless lands. It was their hope that the two rangers would be able to move there more quickly than the whole company could,, and so arrive before them and scout out the best road on which to escape. They would make camp in the Grey Wood west of Minas Tirith and await the rest there. If Éomer had not contacted them on the day before the celebrations, they were to make such arrangements as they could.

Éomer would travel with the remainder of the company by road, down to Pelargir and then up to the City. If needed, they might be able to take a boat up the River to reach the City in good time. If Bergil’s headache had not improved – he had not complained, but they could all see that he was still not well – a boat might be the better course regardless of the time.

Bergil would pose as Aduiar’s new servant, and Bragloth would pretend to be the fourth man that Calembel was required to send. Stepping in for Gwidor, Húrin, Fastred and Éomer would pose as hunters that had been hired by the mayor to accompany them as guards.

If not a perfect plan, it would have to do.

The road was well kept east of Calembel, and easy to travel. The open lands were empty for a while, and Éomer wondered if they had left too late; there should be more people travelling to Minas Tirith for the celebrations. But when he mentioned this to Aduiar, the mayor said they would be there in time. Most of those that came from towns and villages further away would have begun their travels earlier, but soon enough they would encounter others.

“From Pelargir, if not before, there will be many on the road,” he said.

They travelled in silence that day. Húrin gave an account of all that Éomer had not seen fit to tell, but even he spoke quietly. Éomer spoke not, neither did Aduiar and Bergil. The land beside the road was all the same; open grass and scattered forest-holts that slowly gave way for tilled soil. That was the first warning that they began to draw close to the town of Ethring.

Across the river Ringló, just above the ford, the town lay. They got there late in the evening; darkness had already fallen and the town’s gate was closed, but for a mayor, even one from such small a town as Calembel, they opened.

They left it to Borondir to speak on Aduiar’s behalf; he was known, as was the Mayor.

“We left this afternoon,” he said. “The news came late, and we had fields to plough. Four men were asked to come: the innkeeper and myself were chosen by the Mayor, lord Aduiar, and with us Bragloth here was asked to accompany us. He has never travelled far outside the town, but we all know him to be an honourable man. The rest we hired to accompany us to Minas Tirith. We have heard rumours that the rebels will try to hinder those that travel to the celebrations, and the Mayor thought it wise to have more men.”

It turned out that the guards at the gate were less interested in their explanations than they had thought. They let them through without questioning them beyond what Borondir said.

They found the inn, and Éomer learned that they were not alone on the road when all was said and done: only two rooms were empty, and the stable was all full. Three beds in one room, and in the other, one. Aduiar was given that; the other beds went to Ingold, Bragloth and Borondir. A mattress was found for Bergil at the mayor’s request; he would have his servant close, or so he said. The other three would gladly have given up their beds, but it would be too strange to let the hired men have beds, while they slept on straw outside the pens that had been raised to hold the horses.

The pens had Éomer worried. They were small, but that was not the problem: the one to hold the stallions was right beside the only other one. The one to hold the geldings and the mares. And Aduiar’s mare had gone into heat the moment she had smelled Firefoot.

“Look here,” he told the stableboy, “that mare is in heat. The stallions may stay behind their fences, but she will not. She will break out to reach them, and then we will have horses all over the town. And I doubt the lord Mayor will be pleased to have his mare covered with any old horse that lacks her breeding.”

The mention of the mayor did the trick. One of the geldings that had been put inside the stable was hurriedly taken out to make room for Aduiar’s mare.

“Sleep in the stable,” Éomer said to Fastred. “Keep an eye on her. None of the others will be able to handle her; you have a way with mares. I will sleep beside the pens with Húrin and the rest.”

Fastred nodded, and Éomer went out to make his bed on the ground.

They had been given straw to keep warm, and soften the dirt beneath their heads. Above, the stars wheeled in their eternal dance and the soft horse-syllables from horses happy to be out in the night-air drifted over them as they lay down to sleep. Éomer, stretched out on his back, looked at the sky. Still beautiful, the dark between the stars held not the terror of the earth-bound Shadow, and the lights were fair and strong. In that moment he could almost hear the song the Elves had said gave all things birth. The Song all things dance to. All but Men.

With a last look at the sky, Éomer closed his eyes and dreamed.

He dreamed of a field sown with death and a dark sky. In the East, tall mountains. In the West, forbidding trees. The field stretched out between them, a wide sea of grass.

He began to run.

He ran and he ran and he ran. He ran for hours. He ran longer. He ran for days, he ran for weeks, months; yes, even years. The dream stayed the same: under him the earth, above him dark sky and all around him death and life, mixed and intertwined.

Then, when his run had lasted countless years, he saw a man standing in the middle of the field. He knew that man, had seen him once before, but where? He could not recall, and the man was too distant. But in the manner of dreams, all at once he was there; the man stood before him. In his face the resemblance of a face he’d seen before – fleeting – in another Age of the world. He could put no name to those eyes or the angle of the jaw. He held a staff, and from it flew a banner Éomer had seen before. And knew.

Black cloth, White Tree, and seven stones flashing like stars strewn above it.  And hanging above all, a crown wrought of mithril and gold.

The man spoke. “I am dead,” he said. “Dead that _he_ might live.” He turned to Éomer, pierced him with his eyes.

“Darkness lingered long – lingers still – a dark where not even the gentle stars may shine. The banner, our pride, crumbles from the lack of light.

“But I am dead, and cannot carry it away. I cannot even move it.”

And Éomer could see that the man was slowly being covered by a flowing grey; his skin turned to grey stone, cold and unmoving.  Above them darkness churned while the stone spread until the man was enclosed, statue-still and cold. And still it spread where the hand held the staff; up it crept, up towards the flowing fabric, and down, down towards the grass. Spreading the stiff greyness where it went.

It touched Éomer’s feet. It crept over his boots, fusing them to the ground, trapping him in place while the stone spread across his boots, his clothes, his skin; and trapped him alive inside its shell.

“What can I do?” he cried before it closed his mouth.

“Break free. You are alive.” The echoed voice from stone-silenced lips followed him into waking.

Éomer gasped. He struck out with his arms and legs, struggling against the stone that disappeared with the dream. And hit the Ranger sleeping by his side on the ground. Hit him hard.

Éomer was strong.

A moment later they were all awake, on their feet ready to face a foe, but none showed. Bádon was slower than the other two, and Éomer stood there confused from the dream. From behind the fence Firefoot came to see if there was any danger, and the other horses stirred, uneasy because of his concern.

“Who goes there?” Húrin called. “What business have you here?” He and the third ranger stood back to back, missing the other two to make the circle thigh.

None answered, but Éomer blinked against the night, and Bádon rubbed a tender chest.

“Someone hit me,” the ranger said

“I think it was I.” Éomer blinked again. His hand missed his knife. The dream lingered on his skin and in his beating heart. He could not move, but that was not right; his hand was light. With ease he moved his feet, and still he felt the stone creep up his thigh, enclosing calf and shin in cold, unmoving stone.

“Your forgiveness; I dreamed some strange and dark dream. My dream-self was trapped and struck out in fear.”

Bádon just nodded. “It must have been some dream, lord Rodhaer,” he said. “Your punch fits your name.”

“I saw a man,” Éomer said. “I knew him, but I can put no name to the face. Not even my dream-self could, but I think you might have known him, if he appeared in your dreams. He was one of your kin, I am quite certain.”

“How so?” Húrin asked. “What were his looks?”

“Tall, dark hair – like almost all of you. His jaw was square; that was about all I can recall that could have set him apart from all of you, though many of the Dúnedain have this feature.”

“You are right; it does not help much. It could well be a man of Gondor too. What made you think of the North?”

“The air,” Éomer replied. “And I have seen him before, I just do not recall where.

“He stood beneath the banner of the White Tree, with Seven Stars above, and a high crown; I remember well the first time I saw it fly at Pelennor, when I had given up all hope of victory but not given in to despair.”

“It was the Chieftain?”

It was the first time Éomer had heard Echil speak since he had rejoined the king. He sounded young; in the dark Éomer could easily have taken him to be a boy in his first youth.

“No,” he answered. “I would have known _him_ , even changed in dreams. The man said: ‘I am dead’, and I think that he speaks true.”

“What did he tell you?” Húrin would know. “Perhaps he _is_ one of the Fallen, come to help us.”

“If you believe such things,” Éomer said. “I do not think the dead can come back to the living, unless they never left, but haunt still the places of their death.

“As for what he said: he told me he had died to let his Chieftain live, and then he talked about the banner. That it was being destroyed in the dark, with no stars to shine on it. He bade me take it, and then I saw his skin turn into stone, freezing him to an unmoving, lifelike statue, and the banner with him.” Éomer shuddered.

“And then?”

“Then the stone crept across the ground. Turned all it touched to grey stone: the grass and wood and cloth. It touched my boots, and crawled further up until I could not move, or breathe for stony air.”

“And then you woke.” Bádon shook his head. “No wonder you struck so hard.”

“That man, the Ranger, told me to break free,” Éomer said. “ _You are alive_ , he said, as if that would make a difference.”

Éomer fell silent, and it was clear to the others that he did not wish to speak more of his dream that night. They fell asleep again, one by one. The last thing Éomer saw, before he too closed his eyes in sleep again, was the shape of his horse, standing close to the fence. Keeping watch while he slept. He drifted off, and if he dreamt again that night, it was of light and life and horses running over green fields in joy.

He woke refreshed to a new day. The sun had just risen above the low roofs of the town. She kissed him awake before she went on her endless, ever-repeating path across the sky. _Awake,_ she called all things, _a new day arrives._ Éomer smiled at her, and rose. Behind the fence, Firefoot watched him from the same place he had stood when Éomer fell asleep.

“I slept here to watch over you,” the king said. The old horse snorted and tossed his head. He stamped once, inpatient with slow-witted men that could not see that the water was gone; the trough was standing right before him. When Éomer just laughed, he kicked the trough.

“I see,” Éomer said. “I did not care for _us_ ; you only waited politely until we woke so we could fill the trough.” The stallion kicked again; his rider was unusually slow this morning. Éomer laughed again, and woke the others before he sent Bádon and Echil to fetch the water. Then he went to find the mayor.

They left early. The fewer travellers on the road, the fewer to see when they split up, and they were all eager to be off.

Minas Tirith beckoned.  


	12. Of Mares and Brats

At midday they came to the place where Bádon and Echil were to part with them. No roads led east there, only south. They had hoped to find a path through a small wood; that would have hidden their departure. But there were no woods or even small growths to be seen, except for one, and that proved too dense to travel outside the road. And so they had to cut across the fields. Above a flock of crows flew, circling the patches of tilled land. Corn-crows: they should be safe.

Southwards Éomer rode with the remaining men. The rest had helped a little for Bergil’s distress, and he said nothing of the lingering ache behind his eyes. But those that knew him would have noticed that he was more quiet and withdrawn than usual. Fastred noticed, but there was little they could do. Too little time for them to do other than press on. The horses only did they try to spare; they had to hold the whole road, and when – _if_ – they were to succeed, then would start another race. More deadly and demanding than the present one.

A few hours after they had parted with Echil and Bádon, they stopped for a rest. The geldings were hobbled and left to graze, but Éomer insisted that the mares be kept away from Firefoot. Fastred’s mare had gone into heat as well, and both the mares were shamelessly lifting their tails to all the males, but Firefoot got the brunt of their attention.

“He is thin enough as it is,” Éomer said. “We need to keep him away from the others so that he can rest and eat. The mares are the worst, but the geldings stress him too, if the mares are too close.”

Bragloth was sent to watch the mares while Fastred cared for Firefoot. The rest kept an eye on the geldings while they rested and ate.

An hour before nightfall they passed an abandoned inn. The windows were open and empty, but the roof had not yet fallen in, and it had a door. The land around it was barren, and a grave lay north of the house. Éomer pressed on; he hoped to gain a league or two before the day ended. They gained more; the inn was the only house for two hour’s ride, and the first farm they passed had closed their doors and windows. Éomer did not want to force their company on anyone, and so they moved on.

At last, when they had thought they would be forced to sleep under the sky, they saw another farm. The doors and windows were locked, but the farmer answered when they knocked, even if he only opened up a crack to peer out at the travellers.

“Good farmer,” Borondir said. “We seek shelter for the night, and have seen no inn. If you will let us have a roof over our heads, and a place where our horses can rest, we will be grateful. We will pay you for the trouble, and also for any feed you might be able to spare for the animals.”

The farmer did not answer his question at first. He peered at them through the crack, silently counting their numbers.

“What kind of payment do you offer?” he asked at length. “The patrol that passed here four days ago paid me handsomely: they let me live. My chickens and pig were not as lucky.”

“We have coin,” Aduiar said. He was standing behind Borondir, close enough to signal that Borondir spoke on his behalf. “I am the mayor of the town of Calembel. I travel with the chosen men of that town to be at Minas Tirith for the celebrations, and we have long to travel. We ask only a roof over our heads. Beds if you have them, but the men can easily sleep in the barn.”

Fear crept into the farmer’s face. “Lord Mayor,” he said. “Forgive my words. It is my pleasure to serve, it is. Any help I can offer is yours to take. No payment.”

At his words, Éomer wanted to leave. He was about to order the men around when Aduiar spoke again.

“Good farmer,” the mayor said. “You need not fear. I have an unusual ailment of my ears; I cannot hear any words spoken against the good Steward’s rule or against the soldiers that preserve the peace the Eastern Lord has declared. I turn deaf whenever such words are spoken. It gives me great peace of mind.

“Now, what rooms have you to spare? If you have a bed for myself and my servant, I would be grateful. With me are three more men that represent my town, and three hunters that have agreed to serve as guards.”

The farmer opened the door. “Lord,” he said. “My bed is broad. Once I shared it, but my wife is dead; it is yours for the night. One more bed I have; it was my son’s. He too is gone and needs it no more. Take that too, for whomever of your men you’d choose. For the rest, I can offer the benches and the floor around the fire. There is the barn as well. Room for two or three horses, and a pen outside. There is straw on the loft. That is all; I am a poor man. There is not much room.”

“I thank you,” Aduiar said. “It will be enough.” He turned to Éomer.

“Master Rodhaer,” he said. “If two of your men would sleep in the barn, near the horses and the gear? The rest of us, I think, will fit inside.”

Éomer nodded, remembering his role. “As you wish. I shall arrange it.”

The farmer disappeared soon after he had showed them where to sleep. The farm was small, and the house would not hold him as well as the travellers. Once, they could see, it had been well kept and cared for. But lacking both wife and child the farmer could no longer keep it all in order. On the table they could see fresh stains of blood, and a cut that looked as if a knife had been set into the wood. That, too, looked new.

“See if you can find where he has hid,” Éomer told Húrin. “I think he only wishes to keep out of our way, but we cannot risk that he give us away.”

“To whom?” Húrin asked. “A patrol or the Faithful, if any abides near?”

“Either,” Éomer replied. “And I would know how he truly feels. He feared us, and I do not like that we have taken his house and his bed, even for a night, through fear.”

“Very well, I will seek him out. Perhaps he will confide in me, but I cannot promise that I will gain his trust.”

“Keep an eye on him, and also keep him away from eavesdropping. I need to speak with Aduiar and it would be tiresome to guard my every word. It is too late at night to play games with words in case of hiding ears.”

Húrin nodded and left. Éomer could trust that he would keep them safe for the night, or give some warning that they might be overheard. Still he waited until after the evening meal, when the men prepared such beds that they could make. He left them to it and took Aduiar aside.

“I know it is too late to change,” Éomer began, “but why did you accept the farmer’s offer? You saw, as well as I, his fear. I do not wish to bully those that are already pushed around, or win my way with fear. We could have made our camp outside by the road.”

“Bergil needs the rest,” Aduiar replied. “As do the men and the horses. Your stallion could use some rest for his constant wooing of my mare; you said as much this afternoon.”

“It is the mare that does the wooing.”

“It makes little difference, and that you know. And if we left, the farmer would have been in more fear than now. When I declared my name and station, I also declared that I had won the confidence of those that serve the Enemy. That I serve him myself. No such man would let an insult lie, and refusing hospitality would be an insult most grave. So he would fear that when I reached Linhir, I would send soldiers back. And this time the payment would be his farm, along with his life.”

“Very well,” Éomer said. “You words are true. But we will leave him payment; on that I will insist.”

“Of course,” Aduiar said.

They left before the sun rose. The farmer was not there to see them on their way, so Aduiar left a purse on his table with payment for the food and for the bed. Far more, Ingold protested, than _he_ had ever charged a traveller with, but Éomer had nodded his consent. The farmer could at least replace the pig he’d lost, and maybe some of the hens.

They rode off. Húrin in the front with Éomer, Fastred took the rear.

“Did you speak to him?” Éomer asked. The sound of metal shoes hid most of their words from those behind.

“I did,” Húrin answered. “He had made a bed in the hay, as far away from where Fastred had put our gear as he could come. He had not touched it. I had put out signs.”

“Good. What did he say?”

“He was wary at first. Distrustful, as may be expected, but he has lost much, and I think he does not have much left to loose. His son was taken by the soldiers three years past, and his wife died long before. He hopes that his son will one day come back; five years of service, he was told, and then his son would return. Because of this, he guards his words.”

“Five years? Did the son do something to earn such punishment?”

“No. And no accusations were made. The soldiers claimed that it was the duty of each able-bodied man to serve the Enemy for five years.”

Éomer could not recall hearing anything about this rule. He fell back to ride abreast with Aduiar. The Mayor looked at him, and the rest kept their distance, fanning out around them.

“I just learned,” Éomer said, “that the Enemy demands a five-year service of every man in Gondor. And that this has been the rule at least the past three years. Why have I not learned of this before?”

“It is no rule,” Aduiar replied. “Though a law was pasted about that time that made the serfs little more than slaves. The rumour is that the lord Faramir opposed it for so long that he at last was called to the Black Land. When he returned, the law passed within a day.”

“The farmer’s son was taken three years ago; the soldiers claimed it was his duty to serve for five years.” Éomer did not think that it sounded like the same thing.

Neither did Aduiar, but he did not comment on that. “I do not think he will return,” he said. “The Enemy does, from time to time, when there are too few rebels caught to serve his need for slaves, draft young men to his service. I have heard of none that return. Worked to death in the Enemy’s mines, no doubt. This most likely is what happened to the farmer’s son.”

Éomer had nothing to say to that; it sounded all too true, and too familiar. Instead he asked: “Are we in danger?”

“Of being drafted? No,” Aduiar answered. “You are already serving me; the soldiers would not take someone already serving in some manner; there are enough people to take from.”

“I am not sure if that is comforting,” Éomer said.

…

In the evening they reached Linhir. The land around was tilled, and more people travelled there. At the gate, they were asked not just their names and purpose, but of papers to prove that they were allowed to travel more than two days’ distance.

These papers Aduiar had made ready for them, and the guards quickly let them in when they learned his rank. That also made them able to secure two rooms at the inn, and stables for their horses.  The night was quiet, but in the morning they were delayed, more than Éomer liked.

The soldiers at the gate kept records of all travellers that passed through the town, and the magistrate of the city had been alerted when the mayor of Calembel had arrived. He sent his servant to request the mayor’s presence: the magistrate had a few questions that he needed to confer with the mayor about, the servant explained.

“Will it take long?” Aduiar asked. “As the magistrate well should know, the celebrations are only a week off, and Minas Tirith is still a good five days’ travel – if nothing happens on the way. The news reached us late.”

The servant bowed. “No, lord Mayor, it will not take long. The Magistrate knows well the pressing time. He is himself unable to attend; he has an ailment that prevents him from travel. This is a regret to him, and he would not dream of hindering any that wish to attend this year’s celebrations.”

“Very well,” Aduiar replied. “But my servant is not well; I will bring with me another of the men. Will that be acceptable to the magistrate?”

“Of course,” the servant said. “I will escort you there by the shortest road.”

Aduiar nodded. He glanced at Éomer and saw that the king would go with him. He said: “Master Rodhaer, have your men make ready to leave; we will meet them here when we return.”

Fastred looked as if he wanted to protest, but that would bring more danger than for his king to go with the mayor. Éomer nodded, but he said:

“My advice, lord Mayor, would be that we all meet at the gate. The magistrate’s house is closer to the eastern gate; we have to cross the river to reach it. It would save time to have the men await us on the other side rather than to go back and forth.”

“Your words are wise; let it be so.”

Linhir lay on both sides of the river Gilrain, connected with two bridges, one large and one small. The servant led them through the street along the river-shore until they reached the closest. It was large enough to allow one ox-cart to pass, but nothing else. The wood creaked under the weight whenever a heavy-loaded cart passed. It even creaked when Éomer stepped on it. Underneath the river was too deep to wade. Its waters were dark, and the smell of waste whiffed up on the bridge when the wind was right.

The wind was right, and Éomer wondered whether it had smelled that way before the war.

Linhir was larger and wealthier than Calembel. The houses were all of stone – all but the poorest parts of the town – and tall; two stories high or more at the least. On the east side of the bridge they passed several tall houses before the servant led them up another road, to a square.

It was paved with large slabs of white stone. In the middle a fountain was raised where water was thrown high up into the air and fell in glittering drops back into the basin. In the centre of the fountain there was a statue of a man astride a horse. Tall and imposing. He wore a helmet that covered his head so that his face was not shown and in his hand he gripped a naked sword. Éomer shuddered to see it; he could feel his skin covered by stone, freezing him.

The servant walked past the fountain without a word. On the other side of the square there was a large house. To Éomer the square and buildings seemed to be the same as the Mayor’s Mansion in Calembel, only magnified. And more magnificent.

“Who is the magistrate of Linhir now?” Aduiar asked. “News travels too slowly to my small town. Is Lord Medli still in office?”

“He is,” the servant said.

“He wishes, then, no doubt to hear news from his old town.”

The comment was for Éomer’s benefit, and he understood why he was reminded of Calembel; the magistrate was the same that had the Mansion built.

“The magistrate keeps his own counsel,” the servant answered. “You will know his wishes soon enough.”

If Aduiar was perturbed by the servant’s words, he did not show it. “Of course,” he said.

In truth he understood well that the magistrate wished to keep him guessing and in doubt. Before he had been able to secure the position of mayor in Calembel, Aduiar had worked in many capacities within the structure of administration the Enemy had put in place, and he had himself used the same tactic many times. He knew better than to worry about it. Worry will make one reveal more than one wants.

The servant showed Aduiar into the hall where the magistrate gave audiences. Having worked his way upward from being a lesser officer among the Corsairs, the magistrate aimed ever higher, and he had assumed all the finery and trappings of power that he could get away with.

The hall resembled the audience-chamber of the Citadel in Minas Tirith with its stone columns and row of statues of great men. On a dais at the far end of the hall the magistrate sat enthroned on a great chair, carved from one whole block of wood, and gilt so that it shone like gold. Behind the chair a mural covered the whole wall, reminiscent of the one in Calembel. It, too, showed an image of Minas Tirith, but its motif was not the Coronation of the King; this mural depicted a moment from the battle of the Pelennor.

The White City towered against a dark sky, and in front was painted a fallen horse, white against the dark earth of the field. So large was the picture that the image was as large as a horse would be in life – or even larger. Underneath the horse lay the body of a man, crushed by the fallen horse. A crown was on his head. Beside him, on the ground, lay a banner trodden into the mud. White Horse on green. A great shadow rose above the Fallen, taller than the towers.

It took Éomer all the self-restraint he had not to react, not even to bat an eye at what he saw. He stayed two steps behind Aduiar, staring straight ahead. He had never thought he would one day owe Wormtongue any thanks, but this day he did. If not for all the times he had had to bow and listen to the Worm’s words in his uncle’s mouth, and nod, and say nothing, he would not have been able to seem undisturbed now.

Aduiar, who had never seen his sister lying slain on the field, nor knew the truth of the scene that, here, was shown to be a triumph of the shadow, walked calmly up the length of the hall to greet the magistrate. His sharp eyes that ever noticed the small signs that others overlooked, saw – and his mind noted – the Black Fleet coming up the river that the artist had put in the background. Small, and banished into a corner where only those eyes that would not be blinded by the splendour of the central image would see them.

He smiled, and bowed his head in greeting.

“Lord Magistrate,” he said. “I am honoured that you still remember me, and that you would so graciously grant me a moment of your time. How may I serve?”

The magistrate did not reply at first. He looked at Aduiar and Éomer with a look that was meant to be intimidating and stern. His head hunched forward, and his shoulders were rounded and slumped. Éomer stayed calm under that stare, and he assumed the stance of a soldier on guard; shoulders straight and relaxed, feet his shoulders’ width apart, eyes looking forward without ever meeting anyone’s gaze. Not deigning to meet the magistrate’s eyes.

But Aduiar met the gaze and held it, and waited until the magistrate would speak. And as the silence grew, it was the other that felt the pressure of it. His eyes began to wander.

“Yes, yes,” he said. “Good of you to come, and all that.” The magistrate floundered a bit, then he spoke again. “I do not recognise the face of your servant – or guard, or whatever he is…”

“Of course,” Aduiar said. “Forgive me: this is the Master Rodhaer. A hunter by trade, but he has graciously agreed to escort me, and the chosen men from Calembel, to the celebrations in the White City, and with him two other men of which he is the leader. Their trade has been slow, and Master Rodhaer himself did me a great favour just a few days ago. It is a profitable arrangement for us both.”

“But I sent to you a guard, most loyal and true, this autumn. Why would you need to hire new guards, and strangers at that?”

“A good question indeed and one I would have asked myself,” Aduiar replied. “Yes, you did send a guard, and Gwidor was most loyal. I would have trusted him even to watch over Calembel until my return. Alas, that could not be.”

The magistrate was taken aback by this reply.

“You would?”

“Yes, if fate had been kinder.”

“How so?”

“As you said, my lord; he was a most loyal and true guard.”

The magistrate frowned. “I mean: what do you mean by saying ‘was’ and ‘if’ and ‘it could not be’? If you have not left him in your town, where is he?”

“He is dead.”

A mixture of worry and relief washed across the magistrate’s face. He did not voice neither relief nor fear, but asked instead: “By whose hand? What was the manner of his death?”

“You know, Lord Magistrate,” Aduiar began, “that Gwidor was most eager to serve the Eastern Lord, and to rout out any man or woman that harboured any treacherous thoughts against him, be they great or small. In this work lay all his talents.

“He long suspected that a rebel group, a group of those that call themselves ‘the Faithful’ – never was a greater lie conceived than this; that they who faithlessly would work against the Benefactor of us all, would claim to be the faithful ones. But I digress; Gwidor thought that one of these groups of rebels that pester our land had taken refuge in my peaceful town. But it proved most difficult for him to sniff them out.” The mayor paused to gauge the magistrate’s reaction to his words. He only waved him on in a gesture Aduiar knew to be in imitation of the one he himself used when urging someone to continue their speech. He almost smiled.

“My lord,” he continued. “Two suspects were arrested since Gwidor came at the falling of the leaves. Both proved innocent, and we could get no lead on any of the rebels. It was as if they had a spy in our midst. A spy most dangerous, we feared.

“We found the spy a day before we left, and he proved most dangerous indeed.”

“How so? Where is the spy now?” The magistrate leaned forward, eager to learn the news. “Why have you not brought him here to be interrogated?”

“Lord, Gwidor was killed by the same spy that he revealed; this man, Master Rodhaer, witnessed it, and helped us stop the danger to us all.”

At that the magistrate turned to Éomer. “Step forward,” he said. “I would see the eyes of those I speak to.”

Éomer complied. He stepped forward and met the magistrate’s eyes. “My lord,” he said.

“Tell me what happened; who was the spy?”

“Lord Magistrate,” Éomer said. “It was revealed that one close to the Lord Mayor has in all these years been one of those that call themselves Faithful. I came to witness the fight between this man and the guard, Gwidor, by sheer chance, unless fate played a part. The faithless traitor had captured one of my men, a young man hardly grown, and threatened him. There was a fight, and Gwidor was killed, but not before he stabbed his opponent. The man died the same night. He bled out from the wound that Gwidor inflicted.”

“And who was this rebel that you did not know, Aduiar?” the magistrate asked. His voice was filled with glee. “This rebel close to you that you did not detect?”

“My servant, Targon,” Aduiar said. His voice did not shift, but the mirth that had lingered at the edge of his words was gone. “I learned from him that he had been a rebel since before our Lord took this land of Gondor underneath his wing to protect her, even against herself. He was among those that held the gate against the Lieutenant of Barad-dûr before the Steward surrendered. He never accepted his Lord’s rule.”

“He has been with you for many years.” The glee grew stronger with each word. Taunting. Mocking.

“He has, my lord. And I considered him to be most loyal and true; no doubt he has learned much in my service. I have not learned how he passed the information on, but I think his contacts do not live in Calembel. I cannot say for certain, but it seemed from what little he said before he died, that he would relay his tidings to rebels that passed through my town in the disguise of travellers.” Aduiar stayed calm. His voice was even, but his head was bent a little, as if in shame.

“No doubt, my lord, I will be reprimanded for my trust in one so little deserving. I can only hope the damage is not too severe, and that my mistake will not reflect on those that appointed me to my position, and whose approval of my servant was one of the reasons that I gave him my trust.”

The magistrate grew pale at those words.

“I do not think that you are much to blame; the man was clever, and a skilled deceiver. And even less should those that did not work beside him daily, be blamed.” All glee was gone from his voice, and Éomer looked at him and thought: _A coward, fearing for his skin where he at first rejoiced in the misfortune of those under him in rank._ He did not pity him.

”How very true, my lord,” Aduiar replied, as if he had seen or heard no change. “I hope the authorities in Minas Tirith feel the same. But one thing has puzzled me, and perhaps you can shed some light on that mystery. When first he arrived, Gwidor seemed content to watch and listen, and to slowly try to gain his suspects’ trust. But then it changed, and it changed suddenly as if he overnight had been made aware of a constraint; that he had a date before which he had to catch the spy. This haste, I fear, made him reckless and led to his demise.”

“When was this?” the magistrate asked.

“In the spring, just before the month of March began.”

The magistrate sat up in his chair. “Leave us,” he told Éomer. “You can wait outside; I must speak with you master alone.”

_He knows something_. Éomer bowed and left.

The distance from the far wall and the door made it impossible to hear what the two talked about, and Éomer resigned himself to wait. Aduiar would tell him all that he needed to know, both of what the magistrate had said, and what he had not said.

Time passes slowly when all to be done is to wait, and even more slowly when one knows not how long the waiting will take. There were no chairs to sit in, and little to do. Not even many ornaments or images to study. The thick stone walls made the hallway seem narrower than it was, but light fell in from large, open windows. From the windows Éomer could see the square outside, and quite a far way down the streets. People moved around, and on occasion a clerk or servant would cross the square, going from one door to the next. Éomer traced the time by watching the sun’s movement across the sky, and how the shadows moved over the walls and floor. After an hour’s time he gave up, and climbed into the niche of the window that faced the door. It was, at least, somewhere to sit.

“I am not allowed to sit there.”

Éomer scolded himself; he had allowed his thoughts to drift and had not paid attention to his surroundings. Húrin would have had something to say to that. And this time he had none around to keep watch in his stead.

“Why do you sit there?”

It was a small boy, no more than ten years of age, if Éomer guessed right. Perhaps less.

“Who are you?” Éomer asked the boy. “And what are you doing in this place? Is this a place for children to play?”

“I live here,” the boy said. “And my father sometimes lets me stay with him when he works. I am big enough, he says.” And in the manner of children, the boy did not let his question lie until it had been answered. “Why do you sit there?”

“Because, little boy who lives here,” Éomer replied, “there are no chairs to sit on, and this windowsill is much better than to sit on the floor.”

“Oh,” the boy said. “I did not think of that. But why do you not go somewhere else? There are lots of chairs in the rooms.”

“Ah, but I am waiting for a man. He is inside that room to talk with the magistrate.”

“Why?”

“The magistrate wanted to speak to him.”

“No,” the boy said, patient with this grown-up that did not understand. “Why do you wait for him here? There is not much to do here.”

“True,” Éomer said. “There is not much to do here.”

“I would be bored. Are you bored? Is that why you climbed the window? I like to climb, but my father says that I am not allowed to climb the windows. Or to climb at all. He says that only commonbrats climb anywhere. Do you know what a commonbrat is?”

Éomer did have some experience with children – his sister-son was nine this winter – but where to begin with so many questions?

“Strange man?”

“What?” The boy thought _him_ strange?

“Why does your hair look funny?”

By the _mearas_ , what was wrong with his hair?

“Why is the colour all wrong?”

“What do you mean ‘wrong’?” Éomer frowned. Asteth had ensured him that the colour covered all and that no part was left blonde.

“I don’t know,” the boy said. “It looks all wrong, as if it was not yours.”

“It is,” Éomer said. “It is all mine – look!” he took a fistful of his hair and pulled on it, “it is stuck to my head.”

The boy looked down. He fiddled with his shirt and rocked a little on his feet.

“What!” Éomer said.

“My nanny says not to be rude.”

He could not remember his nephew being like this.

“I am sorry,” the boy continued. “Sometimes, in the streets, there are people that look all wrong; they have no legs, or no arms, or something else. Nanny says I must not tell them so; it makes them sad. I forgot. I am sorry I said your hair was wrong. Don’t be sad.”

Éomer vowed that if ever he had children of his own – and he knew he should get some as soon as he could to pacify Elfhelm – they would learn how to keep their thoughts straight in their heads as soon as they could talk.

“Listen,” he told the boy. “I did not choose my hair, it just is that way. Why don’t you run along and find some other boys to play with?”

The boy shook his head. “My father does not want me to play with them. They are commonbrats.”

“Commonbrats?”

“Yes. My father says: ‘Don’t run around like those commonbrats; you are far better than them. Don’t climb the trees; don’t play in the pond – that is for commonbrats, not the mag’strate’s son.’ What is a commonbrat? He never told me.”

“Common brats, you mean?”

“I don’t know. My father always says commonbrats, but he don’t tell me what it is.” The boy seemed to think. “Are you one?”

“Neither common nor brat, not anymore,” Éomer said. “Why did you think so?”

“I just thought,” the boy said. He picked at a scab on his nose. “My father says they climb, and you must have climbed up into the window.” He looked sad. “I am not allowed.”

“Wait a moment,” Éomer said. His ears must be slow, only now did the boy’s words connect. “You are the magistrate’s son?”

The boy nodded. He looked at Éomer with big, brown eyes, not unlike a puppy begging for a treat.

“Do you want to see what the square looks like from up here?”

He lit up. “You’d let me?”

Éomer jumped down. He lifted up the boy in his arms. He was small and light, far lighter than his nephew; perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps the boy was much younger than he thought.

“You see,” he said, “a boy should listen to his father.” The boy nodded and worried his lip. He would not be allowed upon the windowsill after all!

“And what did your father say?”

“Not to sit in the window?”

“Whas that what he said?” Éomer asked. “Was it not something else? Something about common brats?”

“Only commonbrats climb.”

“Exactly,” Éomer said. “And so we will not.” And with those words he lifted the boy up to the niche so that he could sit there safely. “And now it is my turn.” He jumped and heaved himself up beside the boy. “See, now we are here, and no climbing was involved.”

The boy laughed. “I can see the whole town!”

He chattered on about all he saw, naming servants that he knew, pointing at the streets and houses and the animals he saw. Éomer listened with half an ear and kept his arm around the boy, lest he should fall. And time went faster when they were two.

A bell rang. A little later a voice called: “Angur! Where are you?”

“That was nanny,” the boy said.

“Is she looking for you?” Éomer asked.

“Probably. Wait until she can see me up here!”

“I do not think that is wise,” Éomer said. “We should go down. Nannies always worry far too much.” He pulled the boy close and then: “Hang on.” He jumped back to the ground with the boy in his arms.

“That was fun,” the boy said. “Thanks.” He grinned, and Éomer grinned back. The door opened behind his back, and he turned quickly.

Aduiar stood there. He was alone.

“Now, Master Hunter,” he said. “I hope you were not bored; it took far longer than I had suspected, and now we must hurry.”

“I was most graciously entertained by this young man,” Éomer replied. He turned back to the boy. “I must leave now, my friend.  I thank you for the company and bid you farewell. Remember to listen to your father, just like we did today.” He winked at the boy, and the boy giggled.

“Bye!” And with no more talk, the boy turned and ran along the hallway, towards the calling voice.

“We have to run ourselves,” Aduiar said. “Or close to it. The magistrate kept me long, and would gladly have kept me longer, I think. We should have left two hours ago.”

“Fastred will be beside himself,” Éomer said. “He has picked up the bad habit of worrying about me; he did not do that when he rode with me before. He left all the worrying to...”

Aduiar cut him off. “We better go.”  In a voice so low that Éomer almost missed it, he added: “Some people are better not named inside where other ears can hear.”

“Yes, lord Mayor,” Éomer replied. Aduiar was right: he needed to be more careful. “As you wish.”

…

Fastred had worried; as had all the men, but there would be time enough to tell what had happened later. They needed to be on their way.

They rode faster than the day before, but at the middle of the day, they were forced to halt and rest. They had not come as far as Aduiar and Ingold had hoped, but Éomer would not tire the horses overmuch. They found a spot where they would see any travellers approach on either side, long before they came close enough to hear them talk. And while they rested Aduiar told what he had learned.

The messenger who had been sent from Minas Tirith with a copy of the Steward’s letter had been caught close to the border. He had tried to cross at Halfirien, using the cover of the wood, but the patrol had found him.

“He managed to destroy the copied letter before he was caught; he must have known that his chances to escape were small once the border-guard was alerted to his presence. His horse was hit, and though he evaded them for a while on foot, they managed to surround him in the end,” Aduiar told them. “The magistrate did not know what message he had carried, and I think the Enemy did not learn much from him before he died. They gleaned enough to suspect that news passed between Gondor and Fangorn, and that somewhere along the White Mountains the Faithful met to exchange news. Calembel was one of the towns along the mountains where they thought there could be rebels gathering. It did not matter that no arrests had been made in a long time. It was not seen as sufficient proof that the Faithful met elsewhere.

“A message was sent to Gwidor at the end of April. The magistrate did not say how much Gwidor was told, but I think I can even guess at the day; he went to Ethring on the twenty-ninth. When he returned, he pressed much harder to look for spies, and there was a fever in his eyes, as if he knew his time was short. I think he had a contact in Ethring whom he reported to and from whom he got his news and orders. But no report has been sent the last two weeks, and the magistrate had expected to talk with him when we passed through Linhir. The magistrate was concerned about the loss of his spy. He fears to be overlooked, or worse – lose his position. That he will not be in Minas Tirith for the celebrations will be held against him. He hoped that Gwidor would find him some important members of the Faithful. That would secure his position, and even buy him more influence if he caught someone important enough.”

“But why does he not go to the celebrations?” Ingold would know. “That would at least help him keep his position.”

“He cannot; he is too ill to travel,” Aduiar replied. “He sits in his chair because he can no longer walk around for longer stretches without aid. He does not want anyone to know it. He thinks that I do not.”

There was little else said for a while. They ate in silence, and then prepared the horses to leave. Húrin kept an eye on Bergil to see if his headache had grown better. If not, the hit had to have been more serious than he had thought and Bergil might need more rest than they had time to take. But luck was with them; Bergil was much better, just a lingering pain behind the eyes that he was sure would disappear the next day.

“Tell me if does not,” Húrin said.

They did not find any inn along the road that night, and no farm. Éomer would not look for any. He would rather camp outside, and not have to worry about listening ears.

They struck camp after dark. The horses were a problem; the two mares were still in heat and Firefoot was getting distracted by their swishing tails.

“Let him run with Isnod, my lord,” Fastred said at last. “I had not planned to breed her, but it might calm them both down and he is a good match for her.”

Éomer nodded. It might be for the best. “You can pay the fee later,” was all he said.

“Of course, my lord,” Fastred replied. “If it is a stallion, I will give him to you, if it is a mare, she is mine. Will that do?”

The answer made Éomer laugh. “You and your mares,” he said. “Go let her have what she wants. I could never understand why you would ride one, troublesome as they are.”

“She does, at least, take his mind of the geldings,” Fastred replied. “I am sure Bereth is relieved. He would not bear as good a foal as Isnod will.”

“Leave my horse out of this,” Húrin said. “It is not his fault that stallion does not know a gelding from a mare.”

“He does now.”

The two horses had spared no time when they at last were let together. In the dark they mostly heard the noises, but those made it clear that the mare was more than willing.

“Remember to rest; you will still have to go a long way tomorrow,” Éomer called to the dark. If Firefoot listened at all, the horse gave no heed. “I just hope he will eat a bit afterwards.”

They tended to their own needs: a warm fire. Food. Rest. In that order. Éomer assigned the watches, and those that could found their rest.

Fastred shared the first watch with Aduiar. He did not know why Éomer had put the two together, but the Mayor might have had something to do with it. Fastred had not talked much with him since they left Calembel and their first conversation had left him uncomfortable. He did not know what to say now, so he stayed silent.

“There is a matter that puzzles me,” Aduiar said. “Perhaps you could help me by answering a question?”

Fastred nodded; how else could he respond?

“Why does your lord comment on your horse being a mare?”

“They are not usually ridden, not by the men. And not in war. Stallions are preferred, and geldings may be used too; mares are used for breeding.”

“Yet you ride a mare, and by choice, it seems to me. Why is that?”

“It is a rather long story,” Fastred replied.

“We have time,” was all Aduiar said. He waited, and the silence stretched out, inviting Fastred to fill it.

“It was a long time ago,” he said. “And the story is not as exciting as you seem to think.”

“I do not need exciting. I only wish to pass the time.”

Fastred sighed. He stared into the flames a moment to gather his thoughts and to find the memories of a happier time.

“It was many years ago,” he began. “In my sixth summer. My father was a horseherder and after the snowmelt he would be gone, months at a time, herding the horses. We would not see him from snowmelt until well after midsummer, but in my sixth summer he came home late in May. He brought with him a mare, heavy with foal. All the other mares had foaled, but this one had taken late the year before and the foal had not yet come. She was lame, and the herders did not know what had happened, so my father took her home to care for her until she foaled.

“My father was never home in the early summer.

“That spring I had finally been allowed to learn to care for the horses, and I wanted to show my father how much I had learned. How good, or so I thought, I had become. So I asked if I could care for the mare.

“‘No,’ my father said. ‘She is not like the horses on the farm. She is young and has never seen anything but the Great Plains, the herd and the herders. She is half wild, like many of the brood-mares, and her foals will become war-horses for the king's men.’

“I only nodded and said: ‘Yes, father.’ I never dared argue with him, but in my pride I thought that he was wrong. I could handle any horse, even a wild mare, heavy with foal.

“For many days I watched the pen she had been put in. She stood alone, and she was restless. Every night my father would watch over her, to see if the foal would come, but every morning the mare would be alone in her pen, and my father would sleep to midday.

“On the sixteenth day of waiting, my father was so tired that he stumbled when he came in to break his fast. We all sat at the table, and my mother helped him to his chair. He said nothing, too tired to speak.

"‘Has the foal come?’ my mother asked. She sat the bowl of gruel before him on the table, and he picked up the spoon to eat, but all he did was to stir around in the gruel with it. He shook his head.

"‘She will not foal,’ he said. ‘She is not used to pens, and so many people so close. If not for her injury, I would have taken her back, but the plains are dangerous.’

“He let the spoon fall back into the bowl, his food untouched.

"‘Go sleep,’ my mother said. He nodded.

"‘Wake me at midday.’

"‘I will wake you when you are rested,’ she replied. ‘You have slept too little for too long.’ He did not answer, but rose, and stumbled off to bed.

“My chance had come.

“That day I stood outside the pen, watching the mare. She stayed away, but I fetched hay, and grains, and tried to lure her closer. Nothing worked. She had grass enough, and no interest in a small boy's antics. She would pace along the fence, as far from me as she could get, swishing her tail. She was more beautiful, I thought, than any of the horses we had at home. A bay, with coat almost as dark as the tarred timber of our home. Unusual among the greys.

“I failed to see the sweat that darkened her colour so. I failed to see the twitches and the jerky turns of her head. When she as last stood still – the sun had reached her midday-height by then – I thought she had at last grown used to my presence, and full of joy I pressed between the planks that made the fence. I ran, all lessons I had learned forgotten, the short distance – far for six-year-long legs – that separated me from her. Ran right into blackness.

“I woke inside. They had put me on the kitchen floor, the only place where fire burned all days and nights. My father stood above me, taller than I ever saw him before, or after. My mother held me, pressing lightly on my chest to see if I was hurt. 

“I could not see my father's face. 

“The summer-sun shone through the open door, lighting up behind my father's form, and I, I feared what I would see, what I would hear, when he moved and spoke.

"‘He is awake,’ my mother said.

“He bent down.

"‘You scared us, son.’ My father's voice was soft. He spoke to foals and frightened colts thus; with that same calm, soft voice. ‘Are you well?’

“I tried to nod, but my head was sore and when I moved, the room moved more than I. He said no more to me, but rose and turned, and walked out the door.

‘Three days, the healer said, I had to lay inside and rest. No lights, no loud noises and no talk. I waited, bored as boys would be, until I could come out. At breakfast that first day that I could go out, my father fell asleep over his food. 

"‘You cannot go on like this,’ my mother said. ‘Let me fetch the neighbours; they can help.’

"‘It is one day's ride,’ my father answered. He did not say anything more. Even I, at six years, knew it was too far.

"‘Please,’ I said. ‘Can I help?’

"‘Do you know how to make a mare foal?’

"‘No,’ I answered. I hung my head; he had not spoken of my foolishness, but now I feared it would come.

"‘She should have foaled three days ago; all the signs were there. If she waits any longer, I fear for the foal, and for her.’

"‘Can you not make her foal?’ I asked. In my childishness I thought my father could make horses fly, if he so wanted.

“He smiled. ‘A mare has her own mind,’ he said. ‘A gelding, or even a stallion, may be forced to do your bidding, but not a mare. The mare has her own mind, and must be gently asked. If she consents, she will grant your wish, and then she will give you all ask and more, but if you try to take, you will get nothing. It is nowhere clearer seen than when she is to foal. She'll choose her own time, and even stop her labours if she is disturbed.’

“I did not know then, as I do now, that with my foolish wish to touch her, I had stopped her labours. But still I knew that I had done her some injustice when I tried to force my presence on her.

"‘I want to help,’ I said. ‘I don't know how. I thought I did, but I did not.’

"‘There might be one thing,’ my father said. 

"‘Yes! I will do it!’

"‘You have not heard what it is.’ But my father smiled, as parents will do to an overeager child.

"‘It does not matter. I will do it. Please. Please let me.’

"‘I need to sleep,’ my father said. ‘If you will promise me that you will not go in to the mare, and that you will come and get me and your mother if the mare begins to foal, then you can help me watch her.’

"‘I’ll do it!’

"‘It is dull work,’ my father warned. ‘But not hard.’

“He taught me, then, what signs to look for in the mare, and when to fetch him out to help. And while he slept at day, I watched the mare, and when she at last, five days later, in the middle of the day, decided that her foal should come, I was there. I ran, and called my parents out, and hurried back to see; and when I came back, the foal was almost out.

“It was so small, so thin. A mare that bore her mother's colour, and no marks. And though my people favour stallions to ride, for work or war, I have, from that day, preferred the mares.”

Aduiar did not reply to the story, and Fastred did not need it. Telling it had been enough, a gift that he was grateful for. They sat in silence until their watch was done. Before they found their makeshift beds, Aduiar spoke.

“My father’s people always ride the mares to battle and it is considered a great fault in a man to be unable to handle the mares. They are the most loyal mounts when they give their trust.”


	13. On the Road

The next morning they woke early. Right before sunrise, rain fell and woke those that slept. They gathered their things, huddling against the cold and damp. The fire spluttered and threatened to go out, but the rain was not heavy enough; the fire had been kept burning through the night. That gave them a warmer breakfast than they else would have.

Not long after sunrise, they were ready to go. The rain lightened, but did not stop, and a light drizzle followed them all day, soaking into their clothes and boots and hair. Their cloaks grew heavy with water but the thick wool kept them warm and dry inside. The road became heavy with the water, and their progress slowed. Éomer grew concerned with their pace, and he could feel Firefoot tiring underneath him. They might have to go even slower; at a good pace there were still some three days’ travel left before they reached Minas Tirith, and the horses had to hold all the way.

They halted twice that day to let the horses rest, and it was not until after nightfall that they finally reached Pelargir. The guards at the gate did not want to let them in, not after nightfall, and it took Aduiar a long time to convince them to let them in. Being a mayor of a small town was not enough here. In the end he resorted to bribing the guards to let them through.

It was suspiciously easy to find room at an inn; the first inn they found had room enough for them all, and even then there were empty rooms to have.

“We are late,” Aduiar said. “Pelargir should have been full; most of the people will have to pass through here to reach Minas Tirith.”

“The celebrations begin on the seventh,” Ingold said. “And that is in five days. Perhaps we are early?”

“Let us hope so. I would have liked to have more than a day or two to speak with the Faithful in Minas Tirith, and for that we are late, but even so we will not be able to do much before the celebrations begin, I fear.” Éomer rubbed his eyes. “There is little we can do about it now; late or early, I am happy to sleep in a bed tonight. With dry bedclothes.”

“If we are in luck, we may be able to find room on a ship up the Anduin.”

“We may hope it is so,” Éomer said, “though I am not too fond of ships.”

“It might be difficult to find a ship with room for us and the horses,” Húrin said. “We might have to split up even more and have some take the horses by road.”

“No, we should not split up more,” Éomer said. “If we cannot find someone that has room for us all, we will all go by road. Unless Bergil is still unwell.”

Bergil found the attention turned on him. “No,” he said. “I am well. Or will be after a night’s rest.”

“Then we should all sleep while we can.” Éomer rose, and all with him.

The next morning Éomer sent Ingold and Borondir to the docks to ask for passage on one of the boats there. For himself, he took Bragloth and Húrin with him to trade some of their pelts for more provisions, and Aduiar took Bergil with him to the magistrate of Pelargir to seek permission to arm his guards on the last stretch of the road. Such a request had to be delivered by the mayor in person, and only a few of the more important magistrates were allowed to grant permissions. The one in Dol Amroth was the closest to Calembel, and Aduiar knew that he could be denied simply on that reason, but it was too much of a detour. They did not need the permission for their plans, but it would simplify everything. All of Éomer’s men had some hidden weapons, but it was risky, and they would probably not be able to smuggle them inside the City.

Fastred was left at the stables to ready the horses.

He understood the king’s reasoning, he really did. He told himself again and again that the king would be safe with Húrin and Bragloth. Safer, most likely, than with him accompanying, who, in spite of his dyed hair, did not have the appearance of a man of Gondor. Or mastered the accent.

It was all in vain; he could not shake his worry.

One thing always calmed him: the grooming of his horse. He sought refuge in that now, working with calm, long strokes to brush the horses’ coats until they were free of all sand and mud from the road, free of all straw from the stable. He could not make them shine, but he was able to rid them of the worst winter-hair. They felled so much that he could but let the wind blow through the stables, and before it reached the other side, it would carry with it a cloud of hair. Fastred took a curry-comb, and set to work.

Isnod loved the attention. He scratched all the spots that itched and scraped off layers and layers of hair. And still more hair would be loose. If he was back home, he would have gathered the hair to use it, but here there was no time for that.

An hour later he was still working, and a huge pile of hair was gathered around the feet of the mare. He could see little difference in her. She was still moulting. Some places she had shed her winter-coat completely, but the darker summer-coat made her look shabby and un-kept even after all the grooming. He might as well give up and move on to another horse.

Figuring that the mayor’s mare should look the most well-groomed, he continued with her.

Her coat was sleek compared with their own horses’. She had been stabled all winter, with a rug to boot, he guessed, and had very little shedding to do. Even so he took his time to groom her until she shone. She was a pretty bay, the coat on her body a deep reddish brown and with no marks on her. She was smaller and slimmer than the horses of the Mark, but she looked strong enough, and her feet and hooves were strong. Her head was curved, and from what he had understood when he asked Aduiar about it, it was considered a sign of good breeding and noblesse. Unlike the arched noses of the best breeds in the Mark. If he had seen her in a field, he would have guessed it was a lady’s horse. Pretty and vain, but without the courage or power needed for war or work. But the Southrons valued such horses, it seemed. Before he had thought that they just did not know horses well enough, but now he was not certain.

After the mare he thought he should give Firefoot some care, but the scruffier the stallion looked, that better, he guessed. It was hard enough to hide his quality as it was. But he checked the legs and hooves for swellings or heat, or if any hurt had come to the soles or frog. The feet were a little swollen, but he guessed it came from the night in the stable and would disappear as soon as the horse had walked a bit.

He then checked the other horses. Ingold’s horse seemed more tired than the rest, but the innkeeper was tall and heavy, and less used to riding than his companions. Perhaps he should suggest that he would change horses with Bergil for a time if they had to continue on foot. The young man was easily the lightest of them all, and his horse was strong, but calm enough for Ingold to master.

It took time to go through all the horses, but still he had to wait before the rest returned. Húrin and Bragloth came first with the provisions they had been able to barter.

“Where is the King?” Fastred blurted out before he could think.

“ _Master Rodhaer_ ,” Húrin stressed, the rebuke clear, “was called upon by the mayor to appear before the magistrate for questioning.”

“What!”

“Nothing sinister,” Bragloth said. “Relax! The magistrate would not grant the mayor permission to arm his guards without speaking to their – that is our – leader. Bergil found us, and he left it to us to finish the bartering. Come, do something useful and help us load.”

There was not much else to do.

…

Ingold and Borondir had asked every ship in the harbour if they had room for passengers, but those few that had, were not going to Minas Tirith. Or they would go, but only in two days’ time. That would take them there in time for the celebrations, but not in time to contact the Faithful and coordinate their plans. As the morning passed, and no passage could be found, they became more and more convinced it was a waste of time. Time they could ill afford to spend; they had already been late out of Linhir.

“I hear you are looking for a ship that can take you to the White City.”

It was a voice coming out from an alley. It somehow did not seem right, as if it should have belonged to someone that did not skulk around in alleys, even though they could not see the owner. He was half-hidden in shade, and the other half by the rubbish littering the alley.

“I am right, am I not,” the stranger said. “You want to book passage to Minas Tirith for the celebrations.”

“We are looking,” Ingold replied. “But we are rather a large group, and we wish to arrive some days before. Get rooms in a good inn, and so forth.”

“I might be able to help.”

“That is good and well,” Borondir replied. “But we do not deal with strangers that will not show their face. Who are you, and what ship can you offer us room on? We will give you nothing before we are all on board, so if you seek to swindle us, you will not get much.”

“Swindle you? I would do no such thing; my mother taught me better than that. Such rude accusations will not speak for your case; I might decide I do not want to take uncouth men on my ship.”

“My companion is a bit too suspicious for his own good,” Ingold hurried to say. “Forgive him; these are not days where people easily trust.”

The shape in the alley moved. “Come closer.”

They did.

…

Fastred had not needed to worry about his king. The meeting with the magistrate went without trouble; it was the mere formality they had been told it would be. Éomer returned with Aduiar and Bergil just as the men finished loading the provisions.

Éomer noticed that Ingold's horse had been given a smaller load than the rest. Fastred saw his gaze, and answered before he was asked.

"It shows more signs of weariness than the rest, S...Master Rodhaer," he said. "I thought it best to spare it somewhat. Perhaps, if Bergil will consent, he and Ingold might change horses every other day. Bergil is the lightest of us, and his horse is steady and calm."

"Unless we can catch a boat, that might be wise," said Éomer. "We need to reach the White City in two days, and before the Gates close at night. For that we will need to ride hard; we were delayed too long in Linhir, and then even further today."

"Should we perhaps take the horses and meet Borondir and Ingold at the harbours?" Aduiar suggested. "Even if there are no ships that will take us, we will have saved some time."  
Éomer nodded: it was wise, and he wanted to move on as quickly as he could.

It did take them some time to find Borondir and Ingold. The harbours were not all that big, but they were standing a little outside the busiest part, close to one of the numerous alleys that Pelargir was full of. When Éomer hailed them, he thought he saw something move in the shadows.

It was Ingold that turned to answer his greeting.

"Master Rodhaer," he said. "We did not expect you to meet us here."

"It was the lord mayor's idea. He wanted to meet you here, to save us some time."

"Have you found a ship that will take us?" Aduiar asked.

Borondir turned to them as well. "No, my lord," he answered. But Ingold answered "Yes" at the same time.

"Well, what is it? Yes or no?"

"My lord," Borondir said. "Most of the ships here are too small to fit both us and our horses. Among those that could hold us all, some have already take on too many passengers; the rest will not leave as early as we wish. They think they can get more passengers if they wait a day or two."

"But?" Éomer asked. "There must be a reason that Master Ingold thinks there is a ship."

"This man claims to have, or know of, a ship that can take us today." Ingold pointed behind him to the alley.

"Who?" Éomer could see none in the shadows of the alley-mouth.

Both Ingold and Borondir turned. "He was just there!" Ingold sounded confused. "A young man, hardly more than a boy by his looks and the sound of his voice."

"A young boy would have a ship?" The disbelief was clear in Éomer’s voice. "Did he say what ship?"

"He gave no name, but he said it lay by the first pier. A large ship with blue sails."

Éomer turned to see if he could spot the ship Ingold described.

"I see it," Húrin said. "It is anchored apart from the rest. Large, with two masts and many men standing on the deck. They look like soldiers. A banner flies from the tallest mast, but I cannot see its device. The wind is too weak to unfurl it."

"I know that ship," Aduiar said. "The magistrate spoke of it. He was quite proud, I think, that it stopped here; it is the ship of the Prince of Dol Amroth."

"Prince Imrahil is here?" Éomer was not sure what to think of that. "It has been many long years since I heard news of him. The last rumours would have him dead."

"After his release five years ago, he has hardly left Dol Amroth," Aduiar said. "I do not know if the rumours are true, but it is said that he serves the Eastern Lord more faithfully than even the Master of Isengard."

"That is not possible!" Éomer would not believe that. "There is none that are more willing to do his will than the Master of Isengard, unless it is one of the Ringwraiths. What rumours are these?"

"Ones that should not be discussed upon the open road," Aduiar replied. He kept his voice low, but still he did not want to risk being overheard.

"Lord," Borondir said. "I do not think this boy has the connections to offer us room on the Prince's ship. Most likely he only wishes to earn some money by swindling strangers. His aim might even have been to simply rob us; just as you came, he tried to lure us into the alley, but he scarpered as soon as you showed."

"He sounded sincere," Ingold objected.

"With respect, Master Ingold," Borondir said. "I do not know how an innkeeper can be as trusting as you, and still keep his inn."

"I am a good judge of character!"

"And what about Sedil?"

“She…” Ingold had no reply.

Éomer spoke up to end the quarrel before it began. "Even if the boy could get us room on lord Imrahil's ship, I can not risk it. Not even had his loyalties been beyond question: he is surrounded by Corsair soldiers."

Aduiar nodded. "I agree. I would rather go by road, even though we must ride hard to make up for the lost time."

The decision was made, and the two men mounted without any more words. They did not see, and neither did the rest, the shadow that stood unmoving in the darkest pat of the alley. Hearing all that was said, and marking the faces of all in the company.

"You should have said yes," the shape muttered when they had left.

If they had, many things would have been different, but whether it was good or bad it is hard to know. What did happen is all we know, and the ways of fate and luck are hard to tell.

After the company was gone, and could no longer be seen, the shadow moved out of the shade, out of the alley, and a small shape hurried along the harbour towards the blue-sailed ship.

…

That day the company tried to move faster, but it was already past midday when they left Pelargir. Even with a lighter rider, Ingold's horse lagged behind, and they were forced to stop more often than they would have otherwise. When darkness forced them to stop for the night, they had only covered two thirds of the distance they had hoped.

Guards were posted, but they also had to rely on the horses to warn them if any evil thing drew near; Éomer would hear the rumours about the Prince of Dol Amroth.

“We have heard little news of him, “ Éomer said. “And I would know why.”

“What have you heard?” Aduiar spoke softly. Even with the guards, he was cautious lest they would be overheard.

“Nothing, or close to it,” Éomer replied. “I learned of his capture a week or two after we received the news of the lord Aragorn’s fate, and that was by chance.”

“They both were taken at the Black Gate,” Ingold said. “And both held hostage against the Steward.”

“And yet that seemed to have been forgotten when the news reached me. As if only the news of the lord Aragorn mattered.” It was too dark to see Éomer’s face. They had lit no fire, for the day had been fair and their clothes had dried at the inn. And the less attention they drew, the better.

“The return of the king was great news,” Aduiar said. “And other tidings, though grave and of great importance too, were overlooked at first. I have often wondered what quality the King Elessar possessed that the people should love him so readily, in such a short time.”

“Perhaps you will find out,” Húrin said. “In Minas Tirith.”

Aduiar nodded, a dark shape hardly noticeable in the darkness of the night. In the silence that followed, the nightly noises could be heard: the buzzing of the first flies, the soft hiss of the night-breeze in the grass. And the sound of horses grazing close by.

“Tell me of Imrahil,” Éomer said. “For I have heard little, and if the risk had not been too great, I would have taken the offer – if only to see him from afar. I remember him a good man.”

“Prince Imrahil, “Aduiar began, “was, to the best of my knowledge, first and foremost held to secure the good behaviour of Dol Amroth; the Dark Lord did not trust that they would care enough about the fate of a king they never knew.”

“This much we have known,” Éomer said. “Or guessed.”

“His sons never returned from the last battle, but his daughter remained in Dol Amroth during the War. At first, when she learned of our defeat, she took refuge in the hills and with her she took Alphros, her brother’s son and father’s heir. For her father’s sake she returned to the castle, but she returned alone. The lady remained in Dol Amroth, and no tidings of the young heir have been heard. Some say he died in the wild, and that, more than her father’s plight, drove her from hiding. But some rumours claim that the child lives, hidden away in some valley or on some island in the Bay, unknown to any but the sailor-folk of Dol Amroth.

“But few are allowed to travel between the land of the Prince and the rest of Gondor, and even fewer bring tidings.”

“So rumours are all that remain to learn,” Éomer said. “I did hear, some three or four years ago, that lord Imrahil was released, but little else. I was not sure if the rumours were to be believed; at the time it was also rumoured that he had died shortly after his release.”

“It was five years ago, as I said before.” Aduiar paused; there was a tone in Éomer’s voice that promised danger.

“Remember,” he began anew, “that even I have only heard rumours. I, who have been given more news than has been spread to the common people.”

“Do not lead the stallion past the mare.”

“I do not understand,” Aduiar said.

“What the lord of horses means,” Húrin translated, “is that you should tell us more about what you know, than what you do not.”

Aduiar tipped his head and gave a small bow. “My apologies,” he said and his lips narrowed. “In my position I do not have the privilege of frank speech. What I have heard said is that the Prince came back a changed man.”

“Five years as the captive of the Enemy would do that to a man,” Éomer said. “That is no strange news, nor as sinister as your hesitations suggest.”

“True, but the rumours say that he was released because he bowed to the Enemy, and that now he holds his lands as a fiefdom from _him_ , serving his will.”

“Faramir rules on the sufferance of Mordor,” Éomer said. “Yet none here doubt his loyalties.”

“Lord Faramir has little choice,” Aduiar countered. “He never had any, unless he would see some minion of Mordor rule, and be helpless to act. Even so lord Faramir is watched, and his every move is reported back to the Dark Lord, for he is not trusted, and it is the King that will suffer for his mistakes. Thus it has been from the beginning; Lord Faramir cannot refuse to rule on Mordor’s behalf, lest he must see both his people and his king suffer worse.”

“Worse than what?” Húrin asked. “There is always a choice. The Dúnedain know this. The Chieftain would have ordered him not to bend to the demands of the Shadow; he would think no bribe or pressure grave enough. Not even his life. This we know, and we have never bowed.”

“Do not speak ill of my sister’s husband,” Éomer said.  “You have no land nor people to protect; your people live scattered, and the Enemy cannot find your leaders to pressure you. Nor threaten your peasants, for you have none. Do not speak of a cost you know not.”

“You made another choice,” Húrin answered.

To that Éomer answered: “I no longer have a king whom I must serve. And often enough I second-guess my choice.”

Húrin bowed, and said no other word. Aduiar waited, but the king gestured him on.

“The difference between the lord Steward and the prince, is that prince Imrahil was held for five years, and Dol Amroth governed without him. If the Enemy’ s hold on him is the same as his hold on the Steward, why wait five years? Or why, after five years, release him if nothing new has happened?

“These questions, more than anything else, have fed the rumours and the speculations that abound.”

“So, the rumours are that lord Imrahil is broken. He has bowed to the Enemy, and as reward he was released and allowed to rule his lands as a puppet to Mordor. Or the Enemy’s servant,” Éomer summed up Aduiar’s speech.

There was not much to add to that. They sat in silence for a time, in the dark night. Each with his own thoughts, each with his own fears, and none would speak, or yet seek rest.

It was Aduiar who voiced their deepest fear. The one they did not want to allow into their thoughts.

“If five years could break the Prince, will ten have broken the King?”

“No!” Húrin said. “Not ten, not ten thousand years will make him bend!” If his voice had been softer, they might have been convinced that he believed his own words.

“In ten thousand years he would be dead,” Aduiar remarked, his voice dry. Húrin glared at him but did not speak.

“I spoke with both the Prince and his sons in the days before the last battle.” Éomer spoke as if nothing had been said. “His sons spoke with love about their sister, and of their land. Imrahil spoke no words about either land or daughter, but his eyes lit up whenever they were named.

“He did not strike me as a man that would be easily broken by torment.”

“The Enemy is skilled. He knows many ways in which to break a man.”

“You said his daughter returned from hiding for his sake,” Éomer said. “When?”

“Right before midsummer, six years ago. The people of Dol Amroth proved less than eager to comply with the Enemy’s will. Ten years ago the enemy displayed him before the walls of Dol Amroth until the people relented and opened the gates. A Corsair captain was left in charge, but the people remained rebellious, thwarting the captain as best they could.

“A rebellion broke out in the land of the Prince during the celebrations in three thousand and twenty-three. The peasant and fisher-folk seized the castle and held it for a month before the soldiers could re-take it and quench the rebellion. From what they learned of the survivors, the people had many complains against the Corsair’s rule, and resented the rule of any that were not of the Prince’s house.

“The Enemy had the Prince brought there, and in retaliation they hung him from the walls of the castle. Three days he hung there, and on the fourth they took him down, still alive; his daughter had returned to beg for his life.

“The lady Lothíriel ruled in his stead, at least in name, but the captain remained to assist her, or so they said. He often spoke for her, and chose her words as well. But the people have not rebelled since then.

“Why do you ask?”

“Because I can well believe that any threat to her would be more devastating to him than threats to his king. He honoured Aragorn as his liege-lord, but his daughter…”

“His daughter is his child, his blood.” Húrin finished Éomer’s thoughts.

“Her return might have prompted the change, though a half-year lies between the lady’s return and his release.”

“I have heard one other rumour,” Aduiar said, “that can explain why Prince Imrahil might have bowed to the Enemy.”

“Let us hear it,” Éomer said.

“The Corsair captain had, so I’ve heard, grown accustomed to rule and began to covet a higher position; one of name as well as power. He has pressed the lady hard to take his hand in marriage. She refused long, and after lord Imrahil’s release, the matter has not been spoken of again, and the lady is still unwed.”

“If Imrahil had truly turned,” the king interrupted. “If Imrahil broke and became a servant of the Dark Lord, he would not have stopped the marriage, or he would have given his daughter to some Haradrim prince by now – if only to avoid the Corsairs.” It had to be the reason of Imrahil’s surrender. _I have not misjudged him._ But Éomer did not regret his decision in Pelargir; hair-colour or no, Imrahil would have recognised him. He could not risk trusting the Prince not to betray them. Even if he wished to.

He stood, and the others with him.

“We should seek rest,” he said. “Tomorrow we must break camp before the sun, and ride through the day to make up for the time we have lost.”

They did, and sleep came quick to those that rested. But with sleep, dreams came as well. Two men wakened that night, at the same time. Their hearts beating in their chests. Their breath heaving from a race. Their eyes, for a moment, seeing not the night-sky above, but a churning, angry darkness without stars. On both lips a silent scream.

Éomer panted in the darkness when the world returned. That dream, so vivid! And for a second time. He could still taste the stone closing about him.

“Who is there?”

That voice, so familiar by now, helped fade the dream even more. Helped bring him further back to the waking world. He spoke in answer, and that helped him to shrug off the last whispered tendrils of his dream: the cold stiffness and despair.

“Fastred?”

“Éomer king! You are ali… well.”

Was it relief he heard in Fastred’s voice? As if he too, was caught in some nightly vision, some dream of terror he fought to cast off.

“I am well. ‘Twas just a dream.”

A pause, then the answer came.

“I know.”

Another pause. Then:

“I know.”

They were but voices in the dark night, not moving, not rising, as if their bodies had not yet escaped whatever place they had been when their minds tread the path of dreams. Then a horse snorted close by, breaking the spell that held them unmoving with its warm, earthly sound. Familiar.

Éomer rose, and he could hear Fastred rise beside him. They did not speak while they looked around, seeing that all was dark and none was awake.

“Who is on watch?” Éomer asked.

“Bergil, I think,” Fastred answered. “He knows better than to sleep on guard; something must have happened.”

“The horses have been quiet,” Éomer said. “They would have alerted us if someone had approached.”

They found Bergil not far from where they all slept. He was sitting propped up against the trunk of a tree. His eyes were closed and he did not stir when they came close.

He was asleep.

His breath was even and deep and his face was calm. He must have been in some pleasant dream, for he smiled. When Fastred bent to wake him, he did not stir.

“Bergil.”

He shook him gently. The young man stirred, but he did not wake. Éomer had not the same patience.

“On your feet, boy!” he snapped. “What do you think you are doing, sleeping on your watch?”

That woke Bergil, but he was sluggish and slow. He blinked at Éomer.

“Wha…?”

“I said on your feet! Are you deaf as well as blind?”

But even facing the ire of the king, Bergil was slow and clumsy. Something was wrong.

Even so Éomer stood waiting, quiet and stern, and watched while Bergil struggled to his feet. The youth swayed, and then his legs gave out. He fell back to the ground, despite Fastred’s helping hand. Éomer stood there for a moment longer, his face still stern as he looked at Bergil. The youth tried, feebly, to stand again.

_Something is wrong._

The night was too quiet, the silence too strong, and Bergil too weak. He knelt down and took Bergil’s head between his hands. The forehead was a little clammy, but cool to the touch. No fever.

“I am sorry, my lord,” Bergil said.

“What happened?”

“I… I do not know. I suddenly became tired. Too sleepy, more than I should have been, and then I was asleep before I knew anything more.”

“Go check the horses,” Éomer ordered Fastred. “And take care, lest this is more than a tired boy’s negligence.”

Fastred nodded and disappeared into the night. Éomer turned back to Bergil.

“Can you stand?”

“I think so, lord,” Bergil answered. “I was dizzy, but the dizziness has past.” He tried to rise on his own, but stumbled, and Éomer caught him before he fell again.

“I want Húrin to take a look at you,” Éomer said. “And you will take no more watches until he says that you are well.”

“I thought I was well, or well enough,” Bergil excused himself. “I really did. I do not want to skip my part.”

“When we are back in Fangorn, you will receive punishment for this.” Bergil made to speak again, but Éomer cut him off. “It does not matter that you meant well; you endangered us all.”

“I am sorry,” Bergil said.

“I am sure you are. But it matters little: you have seen, and know, enough to know better.”

Húrin woke quickly and took care of Bergil while Éomer lit a fire for him to see. The king was awaiting Húrin’s judgement when Fastred came back.

“The horses are well,” Fastred said. “They are clam and either resting or grazing. Though your horse, my lord, is keeping Isnod away from the rest.”

“Are they mating still?”

“No, they are not, and that is strange. She should not have taken so quickly, and we should have heard them earlier this evening for them to be so quiet now.”

“I do not know about the horses,” Húrin said. He turned to Éomer. “But from what I can tell, Bergil is well.”

“And the dizziness?”

“I am not a healer,” Húrin said. “I just know a little more than the rest of you. I do not know; perhaps he rose too quickly while he still was groggy from sleep.”

“It did not seem like normal grogginess,” Éomer said. “He could not walk on his own the short distance here.”

 “Then my guess is that the dizziness comes from some lingering effect of the blow he took to the head. That might explain the tiredness as well.”

Éomer nodded. “Very well,” he said. “Bergil should not be given any tasks other than those strictly necessary until we can be sure that the blow will not cause more dizziness, or any other effect. No guard-duty at all during the remainder of the journey. It is too risky.”

Éomer took what was left of the watch and sent the rest to sleep. Fastred sat beside him for a while, but neither spoke. Above them the stars came out, wheeling overhead, and the moon rose, casing his silver across the landscape. He grew so strong that Éomer could see the horses clearly; even the difference in colours could be marked, if not seen clearly. On the ground the shadows grew sharp and clear, distorted by the strange light. On the far side of the field, there was a dark line where the trees of a small wood began. There, between the dark and the silver light, something moved. A fox, perhaps? Éomer strained to see, but it was too far, and even in the bright moonlight it was too dark to discern anything under the trees.

He nudged Fastred and pointed. “What do you see there?”

“I see nothing, sire,” he answered.

“I saw some movement, but I could not see what it was.”

Fastred got to his feet. He too strained to see, to no avail.

“Could you tell its size?” he asked. “Could it have been a man?”

“Or something man-shaped,” Éomer said. “I do not know. At first I though perhaps a fox, but it is too late for foxes; they hunt at twilight, not in the deep night. But the movement was too slight for me to see. Or too far off. It could have been man or a cat for all I could see.”

“The horses are calm,” Fastred said. “And I have learned to trust them more than my own eyes; they can sniff out evil far better than even the Elves.”

“We will have to trust to them, then.” Éomer watched as Firefoot lifted his head and snorted, as if he was commenting on their words. The horse bent down again to graze. Éomer smiled to see it. “Firefoot agrees.” Fastred just nodded, and they fell silent again.

Time passed, and nothing else happened that night.

…

The next morning Bergil was no longer dizzy, and that day they were able to move a little faster. Until midday.

About four hours’ hard ride after their midday pause, they began to pass more and more travellers, all moving towards Minas Tirith. Éomer had to slow the pace and a few hours before nightfall they were reduced to a walk, and then forced to stop. Up ahead the River Erui ran, the last they had to cross before they came to the White City. There was only one bridge close to the Road, and unlike the other crossings, there were not settlements around it, not even an inn, much less a village or town. And yet, they saw when at last they came near enough to see, the bridge was controlled.

A small company of soldiers – from Harad by the looks of it – stood at each end of the bridge. All that wanted to pass had to have their papers checked by them, and pay a fee. They said it would but cover the cost of keeping the bridge safe and in good condition, but the soldiers kept far more than was ever used.

They did reach the other side that day, but darkness fell once more and they were forced to camp at a shorter distance to the river than they liked. The Haradrim soldiers shut the bridge for the night, and pressed their protection on some of the travellers that were forced to wait. From across the river Éomer could hear them, but do nothing. He almost ordered the men to break camp and ride a few more hours into the night, but Bergil had grown worse again, and Ingold’s horse was far too tired for them to press on.

That night they did not speak before they found their rest, and sleep was slow to come.


	14. Once Again I See the White City

The Road was slowly filling up.

Slow wagons rolled north. The wheels groaned under the weight of too great a burden and they turned inch by agonising inch. The oxen were strong, but slow beasts; surely they dragged the wagons over every hump and dip in the road. Perched on top of the wagons those too weak-footed to walk held on to their places. Not beggars these, though without the means of better transport. At the foremost wagons could be seen some of higher status: they sat comfortable though the seats were the same. The numbers sharing them were not.

Around the wagons walked both young and old; those strong enough to walk or too poor.

The walkers always overtook the wagons.

Éomer did not speak with any of his men. The people moved aside to let them through and all he could see were bowed necks and dark hair. None met their eyes, and most turned their faces away and down. _Do not look. Do not draw attention; you do not wish to be seen. Make room for the high and mighty lest they do more than ride you down._ Éomer did not speak to his men, but he wished he had brought the silver bells his mother had left him.

_You left them in Meduseld_ , he reminded himself. _If the orcs have not taken them, the Master of Isengard has. There were things of far greater worth lost there._ Still, they would have been handy.

Too many people on the road, and Firefoot chose now to earn his name. He might have to relent and call Fastred to his side.

The stallion snorted and stamped, dancing to one side, then the other. Éomer could only hope his curses would give the people enough warning. He looked forwards, but even beyond the carts the Road was dark as far as he could see.

“Will you listen,” Éomer hissed. “Isnod is just at the back, and there are no other stallions here. Stop your antics.”

The horse did not listen. He danced to one side and the people scuttled out of the way. Éomer let his spur meet him there, and he danced the other way, only to find the other spur waiting. He snorted and lifted both forelegs in protest.

“Oh no, you don’t,” Éomer scolded. “It was your own fault, _sott_ : it was you that walked into it. Now behave.”

The travellers keep away from him as best they could, but they were close to the wagons and there was not enough room. None had been hurt, but… Éomer made one last bid to force the stallion back under control.

Moving his legs further back Éomer gripped the flanks with his calves and pressed. Firefoot jumped, but Éomer held him and one by one the hindquarters came under him until the horse relented to the rhythm he asked for. One-two, one-two, an even beat and the horse surged under him, growing powerful and soft. Firefoot snorted again, but this time Éomer did not mind. He urged the horse forward into a slow, cadenced trot. The gait was too demanding for Firefoot to think of anything else.

They made it past the wagons but the respite was short. Quickly the Road was as full as before, even without the carts.

Éomer fell back to speak with Aduiar. 

“Is all well, Master Rodhaer?”

“The Road is filling up, Lord Mayor,” he answered. Firefoot tried to press closer to Aduiar’s mare, Isnod forgotten beside this new temptation. Éomer did not allow it.

The people around could not have seen the movement, it was too small for that, but there was more space around them than there had been further back. Éomer looked at Aduiar only to be met with a wry smile.

“Tiresome as it may be, my work carries a few benefits with it,” the mayor said.

“I see,” Éomer answered. “Would you wish to exploit those benefits now?”

“I leave that to your judgement.”

Éomer glared at him. “As you wish… Lord Mayor.”

He pressed forwards again. The land stretched out wide and flat for this part of the Road, with ploughed fields around, right up to the sides of the Road.

“Borondir!” he called.

Firefoot laid his ears flat when Borondir’s horse came up alongside him, but a prick from Éomer’s spurs brought his manners back. It might have helped that Borondir’s horse looked suitably frightened and subservient.

“You know the tilling of land better than me,” Éomer said. “Tell me: can we use the fields? The Road is too slow.”

“Not without damaging them,” Borondir answered. “Not here. These fields are ready to be sown, some might have been already. The hooves of the horses would damage them – even a man walking un-burdened might do them harm this early in spring.”

“Very well. See if you can clear the road a little. The lord mayor wishes to arrive today.”

Éomer fell back to take Borondir’s place beside Húrin. The slow pace irked them both and none of them spoke. Firefoot was as impatient as his master, and both grew hot under the sun.

They halted for a rest early in the afternoon – the only rest they took that day. The geldings were hobbled and left to graze, but the two mares and Firefoot could not be trusted to that. It was too much work to make enclosures for them like they had done the previous days, and therefore they rotated the duty of looking after them.

Bergil and Aduiar were excepted from that duty; the young man was ordered to rest, and it would look strange that the Mayor did such a lowly duty, should any see. Ingold, too, was put to other work, preparing their meal. He was the best cook, and the worst horseman.

Éomer and Fastred grazed Firefoot and Isnod together. It calmed Firefoot enough for the stallion to feed and rest, but Aduiar’s mare, grazed near the geldings, was a nightmare. It did not take long until Éomer decided that a better handler than a Ranger was needed, and he sent Fastred over to deal with her.

“You do not trust my horsemanship?” Húrin asked – half in jest – when he joined Éomer to take over Fastred’s duty.

“Your horsemanship is surprisingly good, to tell the truth,” Éomer said. “But Fastred has a way with mares that is rare, even among the Eorlingas.”

“I know his skill,” Húrin said. He shrugged. “I guess I did not expect a mare would be so troublesome.”

“She is in heat; then they grow worse. But even without that excuse they are difficult. More stubborn than you would expect. A stallion is simple, and the gelding even more so, but the mare… I would rather not have anything to do with them. Wilful and stubborn, with a tendency to lose their heads.”

“Like most women?”

“I would hope not! I will have to find one, one day, or Elfhelm and my sister will never give me rest.”

“I am sure you one day will meet one that will fit you well.” Húrin chuckled and shook his head. But Éomer knew that glimmer in his eye.

“What now?” he asked. “Are you going to make me pay for leaving you stuck with that mare for so long? Or for pulling you out?”

“Neither, Master Rodhaer. But I cannot help but think that when you find that woman, she just might show all the traits you so abhor in mares.”

“Fate would not be that cruel.”

Húrin chuckled again, but before he could answer Ingold called them to the evening meal.

“Go eat,” Éomer said. “They have settled well enough; I can watch them both for now.”

Having two horses to mind, and two sets of reins, Éomer could not sit down to rest. Despise this he found it peaceful to watch the two horses. They grazed side by side, content for now to do little else. From time to time their tails would swish to chase away the flies. Few as they were this early in spring, the insects seemed to always be able to find the horses.

Firefoot was shedding in great flakes of hair. The patches where the summer coat was visible were lighter than the winter coat, and it made him look more unkempt than he was. The hair underneath the saddle had been partly worn off, and the thinner coat showed clearly where his ribs stuck out. He had lost weight before they left Fangorn, but to Éomer it now seemed to be getting worse. Spring, and the presence of the mares, took too much out of him. Éomer suspected that if it wore on he would regret his choice of horse; for all that he loved Firefoot. Or because he did.

“Eat, old friend,” he said. “You will need all the strength you can get before our task is done. I am sorry for what I will have to ask of you before we get home.” He looked at the mare and chuckled a little. “Just make sure she does not foal a mare, and I promise you that you can rest for the remainder of your life. No more marks from saddles and bits, how does that sound?”

The horse lifted its head and snorted at him as if to say that it was the most laughable thing he had heard.

Éomer smiled. “No, you would not like too much rest; you delight in work. Well then, my trusty steed, I promise this: I will ride you each day if I can, but I will not take you on such a taxing journey again. Some other horse will have to be found for that.”

Firefoot snorted once more, but lowered his head again to eat. Éomer let them eat in peace.

Before long Húrin took his place, and Éomer could seek his own food. He, too, had lost some weight this spring, but it was not until the very last weeks that food had truly been lacking. He hoped his men would return safely with the provisions, or starve they would until new food grew or game could be found. It would be difficult to leave the Huron’s Guard again, should their own quest be won. They might have to keep a smaller group of men at Wellinghall, but even that would be hard to feed; Ents might be able to live on water, but even their potions would not sustain Men over time. Elves might fare better, or so he hoped.

The grazing of the horses had taken him a little away from the camp. When Éomer returned, he saw that they had company. Beside Bergil there sat a young man. He looked as if he was in awe of the mayor, afraid to approach him but still wishing to be near. Éomer had never seen him before.

He did not sit down. Aduiar did not make answer to the question in Éomer’s eyes, but Bragloth stood to greet him. In hushed voice he explained that this man, one Hardang from the Green Hills, had asked for their help, and the mayor had agreed to let him eat with them, and travel with them if he was able to keep pace with the horses. The man came from a small settlement; so small that they had only been required to send one man to the celebrations in Minas Tirith. Hardang had been chosen, but he had never been outside the Green Hills in all his life, and now he was more than a little lost.

“Lord Mayor,” Éomer said, “you know that we must reach the White City this evening, before the gates close at night? Else we will be forced to wait outside until the morning, and who knows if the inn-keeper will keep the rooms for you if we are late?”

“Will not a lowly inn-keeper keep his word to such a man as the Lord Mayor?” Hardang spoke before Aduiar could answer.

Aduiar left it to Éomer to chastise the youth. He only lifted an eyebrow at the young man.

Éomer stared at the youth. He seemed to understand that something was amiss, but not what. It did not endear him to Éomer.

“I spoke to the Lord Mayor.” Éomer’s voice was cold. “He is not only capable of speaking for himself, but also more likely to know the mind of an inn-keeper in Minas Tirith than a boy who has stolen from his mother’s skirts.”

Hardang hung his head. “I spoke out of turn, Master Hunter. I am sorry; my mother always berated me for that. ‘Don’t speak out of turn,’ she would say. ‘Mind your manners before your betterers.’ Yet I never learn. But she stopped when my father died. Now she hardly speaks a word.”

“My condolences on your father,” Éomer said, but his voice did not soften. Before he could say anything else, Hardang spoke again.

“Thank you, but it was three years ago; it matters little now. At the time I did not know what to do; my older brother taken by the soldiers and I alone but for my mother. Too lose them both the same day was hard for her. She has never been the same.” It looked as if he did not intend to speak again, but before Éomer could open his mouth, Hardang continued his story.

“It was the first day of spring.

“My father was preparing the field behind the house. It was the smallest one, but the one that yielded the most. The one that thawed first in spring and froze last in autumn. The one that the sun shone upon from early morning until nightfall. The only one that was ready for the plough; all the others still had ice beneath the surface of the soil.

“My mother was inside, baking bread. We still had some grain left from last year’s harvest, beside the seeding-grain. I remember seeing her kneading the dough when they came. We could not see them when they came, for they came over the field where my father worked with my brother. He was the eldest; always the stronger, and I had been ill that winter or I would have been there with them.

“I did not know that anything was about to happen until I heard shouting. The harsh language of the Southrons, and my father’s voice, calling for my brother. My brother begging him not to act. By the time I reached the field – short as the distance was – my brother was gone, and my father dying.

“We buried him in the south-field. Where the sun would reach even in winter. He loved the sunlight.”

Hardang fell silent. Bergil sat beside him as if he wished to speak, but did not know what to say. Aduiar said nothing, showed nothing. Éomer looked between them and shook his head.

“The soldiers of the Eastern Lord are to be obeyed,” he said. “Do you not know that? Do you not know that your words may condemn you?”

“Peace, Master Rodhaer.” Aduiar finally spoke. “A young man, grieved by his father’s death, can be given some lenience. Eat your food and be reassured, he will not slow us down. If he cannot keep up, he knows that we cannot wait for him.”

Éomer nodded, pacified for the moment. The boy was either too trusting, or he was testing them with his story. The question was why. Was he another spy for the Enemy’s vassals, or was he looking for others of the Faithful? They could not risk another spy. He took his food and ate without any more words. The others sensed his mood, and kept quiet as well. Even Hardang seemed to sense that silence would be the best course of action.

They continued as soon as all had eaten. The horses were saddled, everything clear, and the young man walked beside Bergil’s horse.

Éomer rode in front. Firefoot did not want to leave his mare, but Éomer would not accept any disobedience. He was in a bad mood and Firefoot could sense it. It woke the fire in him again. The fields still stretched close to the Road, but a small strip of yesteryear’s grass still grew between the ditches of the Road and the tilled earth. Éomer made his horse canter off along the road, hoping that the speed, as well as distance, would help.

It did. Somewhat.

Most of the day the stallion would not walk calmly, but prance and trot. A few times Éomer took him into the slow, cadenced trot that would tire him quickly, but even that worked only for a time. After some hours’ travel this way, Éomer was relived to see that they had passed most of the crowd; the Road stretched out, abandoned for a long stretch. Not only could they move quicker, they would also leave Hardang the stranger behind. Éomer hoped, and expected, never to see him again. Minas Tirith was large; they would probably not run into each other again.

In this Éomer would prove to be mistaken, but for the rest of the day their most pressing concern was to reach the City before nightfall.

A few hours’ swift canter brought them to another stop. There were too many people on the road to get past, and they could not see the end of them. Éomer wanted, for the most fleeting of moments, to use the horses’ strength and push through the crowd. But no, it would not do. Instead he took Fastred with him to scout ahead, riding on the side of the road once more. The soil was not tilled yet that close to the road here, and they managed to find a path they could follow without damaging the land.

Firefoot did not make any trouble once he had his mare to himself, much to Éomer’s chagrin. Fastred did not comment on it; he knew well enough that his mare often made life a little harder on both her and the horses around, if any were stallions. At least in spring. Firefoot was more protective than possessive, though, and he began to wonder if she indeed had taken with the first mating, unusual as that was.

They turned back before long. They had not spotted the end of the line, but they figured that they would be able to pass more quickly if they used the field beside the road; even the Eorlingas’ untrained eyes could see that the earth lay unbroken and untended. And Aduiar’s status would keep all objections away – any other mayor would just have had his men force a path through the crowd. Which would be a show of force rather than a need for speed: even thought they would have to go slower than if the road were empty, it was still faster to go around than to force their way through the press of people.

Two hours later they found the roadblock; another slow-moving cart that blocked most of the road. Some dignitary from the South was bringing his wife, and would have none of the rabble – as he saw it – pass too close to her. As luck wanted it the Road went through a small cluster of trees where they caught up with the cart. The trees were tall, with little undergrowth or low-hanging branches. Éomer had Húrin lead them and they passed with little problems. Once past, the Road was almost empty and they rode on as quickly as the horses could manage.

Even so, they were late.

The sun had set when they reached the White City. Only a lingering glow of red shone upon the walls, belying the name. Éomer looked up on the tall walls, saw the Gates rebuilt and there, from the Citadel, flew what he had hoped never to see: the white banner of the Stewards hanging side by side with the Red Eye. He turned away from the sight. It was almost as bad as seeing that sign in Edoras. Almost.

Bergil did not look up, and even Fastred was disturbed, who had no memory of Minas Tirith before the War, or carried any dreams of it.

“This was not how I hoped to see her,” Húrin muttered to himself. “Would that my brother saw her happier, even in the midst of war.”

Only Aduiar looked as if the sight was as it should be. He stopped, and the others with him, and he turned to them. He checked that there were none in sight, and then studied each of the company to gauge their reactions.

“The Gates will be closed,” he said. “And we will have to sleep one more night outside. That, it seems to me now, is a good thing. You will all have to school your faces; Minas Tirith is not the City you remembered or dreamed of, but you _must not_ let it show. You must harden your hearts and minds; whatever injustices you will see, you cannot interfere. Large or small. It is the fate of spies that is not easily borne: to seem not to care. To play along and even contribute to what your heart tells you is wrong. But if we cannot curb our emotions, all will be lost. We might as well turn back now, and leave the King to the Enemy’s devices.”

They had all known it before, but only at the sight of those banners side by side did Éomer understand how hard it would be. He would always prefer the horses’ way, with no deceit or lies, and now he had to learn the way of worms. He shuddered and clenched his teeth, but nodded.

“Then let us find a place to camp for the night,” Aduiar said, and he led them on, down from the small hill on which they had halted. Was it the same hill from where Éomer had seen the black sails, and the banner of his friend unfolding? Such a happy sight, and a happy meeting amidst battle and fight and sorrow.

They choose a place not far from the walls so that they might enter as soon as the Gates opened the next day. Éomer hoped that the Faithful would not be hard to find, and that they would have enough time to adjust their plans once they had seen and knew more abut the City and its streets. And whether any of the Faithful had made plans themselves.

But one thing he could do tonight. He told Bragloth to find Bádon and Echil to let them know that they had arrived, and to find out where they had made camp. But Húrin interposed.

“I should go,” he said. “It may take time to find them, and in the morning Bragloth should be here, entering the City with the rest. He is, after all, supposed to be one of the representatives from Calembel. It would be strange for him not to arrive with the rest of us.”

“Neither should go.” Aduiar had not disagreed with, or even commented on, Éomer’s decisions on guards and scouts during the travels. Éomer turned to him.

“Why?”

“Húrin has a good point; it would look strange if any of the delegates from Calembel came later than the rest, but unless he wants to spend the days of celebrations outside the City, he has to come with us. Because of the number of people coming, and the guests of honour – so to speak – none is allowed inside the City unless invited. Or unless their arrival was announced beforehand. Húrin will not be allowed inside the City unless in my company, and neither will Bragloth. Not on his own. Borondir should go, unless you are confident that whomever you send will be able to return before sunrise. His name has already been given, and he knows both where we are going and whom to contact.”

“And would it not look as strange for Borondir to arrive later as would if it were Ingold or Bragloth?” Húrin could see that Aduiar had a point; still he would rather speak with his men if he could, and it _would_ look strange for the delegation not to arrive at the same time. He had figured that a lone traveller would not call much attention with so many arriving.

“Borondir was my main guard before Gwidor arrived,” Aduiar answered. “It will not be as unusual for him to be sent on some errand for me.”

“Then Borondir will go,” Éomer decided. He turned to the guard. “The sooner you go, the better. If you can get back before sunrise, that would be the best, but regardless of that, if you do not make contact with them before midday, come back to the City.”

Borondir nodded. “Yes, lord Rodhaer.”

“I want to go with him,” Húrin said. “I will make sure to return before sunrise, but I will have a better chance of finding Bádon and Echil than Borondir has. They are Rangers; we are trained the same. I know what signs to look for.”

“Go.”

The rest of them made camp. Since they were only a little way from the walls, they lit a fire; there was little point in keeping their camp secret, and though Calembel no longer was great, Aduiar was Mayor still. No man of his standing would hide this close to the walls.

“We should have brought tents,” Aduiar said. “Sleeping outdoors is not a usual pastime of mine, nor of most dignitaries.”

“I am sure you can come up with an explanation if you are asked,” Éomer replied.

“Lie?”

“That will not be necessary; you merely did not expect to arrive too late to be admitted into the City before nightfall.” Éomer shrugged. “That was our plan, before you wanted to take in a stranger.”

“You know, as well as I do, Master Rodhaer, that that boy was not the reason we were late.” Aduiar watched Éomer for a moment. “Why were you so hostile to him? You treated the old farmer with kindness and courtesy, but to young Hardang you were rude.”

“The farmer was no threat,” Éomer replied. “We invaded his home, and he feared us, but I sensed no threat from him. That boy, I am certain, did not speak the truth. He concealed something from us, that much I know though I do not know what.”

“You are good at judging characters?”

“I am seldom wrong. I know dishonesty when I see it.”

“I, as well, can read the hearts of Men,” Aduiar said. “Not as well as it is said our Steward can, but in my own way I am seldom wrong in assessing their motivations and loyalties. I felt no ill-will from Hardang, and no deceit. Just a rather naive belief that the world means him no harm. That is rare in these times.

“I was rather like him when I was a boy,” he continued. “I should not have been, given the manner of my birth, but my mother sheltered me as best she could. It was not until we came to Gondor that I learned otherwise, strange as that may sound. My mixed blood made people distrust me, and children can be cruel. I quickly learned to hide my thoughts, and my background, and to distrust those I meet. It should have made me bitter, an easy ally for the Enemy to convert. But I had learned, and learned well, what flattery was, and how false those that give it can be. Being skilled at hiding my thoughts, I learned to read others’ from the words they did not speak.

“But I still remember the innocence of my youth, and in young Hardang I saw the same. Such innocence is to be treasured: a promise, or so I think whenever I encounter it, that there is still hope for Men. And so I nurture it, when I get the chance.”

“I do not think he will thank you, if you read him right,” Éomer said. “He will soon learn, and likely the learning will be hard.”

“That may be so,” Aduiar admitted. “Yet I cannot bear to do otherwise.”

“ _That_ I think I understand,” the king said. “I know I should prepare my sister-son for battle. He will be old enough, soon, to lead men, yet I cannot bear the thought of sending him out to learn of bloodshed. Not yet.”

“How old is he?”

“Nine.”

“That is too young still. You have many years before that is necessary.”

“Not that many,” Éomer sighed. “At twelve I joined my first patrol. I was not sent to any danger, but still I had to learn to fight before I left. And my uncle knew that I might have to use those skills.

“The world was safer then than now.” Éomer shook his head. He could not imagine what he would do, should he father a son of his own, when he could hardly think of letting his nephew go into danger.

“Let us hope,” he said, partly to change a subject of which he did not want to speak, “that your judgement is the better.”

“Let us,” Aduiar agreed. “And let us find our rest.”

They did. Stretching out beside the fire, one by one they fell into slumber, and into deeper sleep. And into dreams.

Éomer, in his dream, saw again the great field. He knew it, and knew he dreamed, but he could not wake. He tried not to move, not to go where he would turn to stone. Not to go where that man had turned into a statue, but when he stood still, the world around him moved instead. He tried to run away, to turn from the centre of his dream, but in the manner of dreams, no matter where he ran he ended up where the dream would take him. Where he did not want to be. It took him where he saw what he knew would come.

He woke, his breathing caught in his throat and heart hammering in his breast. Above the stars turned, and the night-wind brought a whiff of salt and sea. Just like it had more than ten years before.

“Sire?”

It was Fastred’s voice.

“Are you well?”

Éomer did not answer at first. He tried to collect his thoughts, but they were scattered by the dream. He rolled to his side and pushed himself up to sit. The embers from the fire glowed in the dark. Angry, red eyes against the black.

“Bring more wood.” It was the first words he spoke, and Fastred, ever the good subject, did as he said without another word. He said no more until the fire burned and the flames chased away the visions of the eyes.

“What did you dream?”

Or perhaps not such a good subject. A good subject would not pry into his king’s thought.

“Sire, it is clear to me that you are not well, yet you are not ill – I cannot think of any illness you might have caught that will wake you in such a manner. Only night-visions make a man wake so; breathless and confused until the light shows us the world of waking.”

“And what do _you_ dream, Fastred, that you know this so well?”

Fastred looked away. “We did not speak of me.”

They sat in silence for a while, neither wishing to pursue the other’s question. Then Fastred spoke.

“You know,” he said, “that I have not supported this quest. From the beginning I have been afraid that it will not end well.”

“You made that clear, but I never understood where your misgivings came from. Apart from the obvious.” Éomer tried to smile, but Fastred did not look at him and it was wasted.

“No,” Fastred said. “How could you when I have not made clear my fears. I feared, and I still do, that you will not trust the source, but now I think that I must tell, ere it be too late.” He paused again, as if to gather his thoughts and consider the best way in which to speak. Éomer waited, not only because he wanted to know; Fastred had forgotten Éomer’s own dream, and he did not wish for him to remember.

“The night before we left the Huorns’ Guard, a dream came to me,” Fastred began. “I do not often dream, and rarely do the night-visions linger in my mind when I wake, but this dream was more vivid than any I have had. It has stayed, and repeated itself in my mind both sleeping and awake.”

Fastred’s voice was low as he described the snow-clad fields, the banner and the maimed man. The talking dead and the raging dark that would devour the man. Éomer let him speak, and both avoided the other’s eye but the dream-vision grew clear before both their minds; vivid in the horror of their fears.

“Then a White Horse arrives.” Fastred turned to catch Éomer’s eyes. “Its rider young as you were when you became our king, or younger still. The horse is a _meara_ , or my dream-self has forgotten all I know of horses. The darkness fights and rages against them, but the young man steps off the horse to lift the broken man to his feet. I cannot see the fight between the light and dark that rages, nor can I see anything but the swirling storm, until it passes, and on the ground the youth lies as did the broken man before. Maimed as he.

“He has disappeared, but in his hand the youth holds a gem, green as the grass, and lifts it to the horse. It takes it away, leaving us behind. Before I wake, or the dream starts anew, the dead man says: ‘You are alive.’

“I do not know what it means, but when I wake, I fear for you.”

Fastred fell silent and turned away. “Sire, if you are to exchange your life for his, we will have gained nothing.”

Éomer did not reply at first.

“I have never put much faith in dreams,” he said at last. “Neither they of sleep or of waking hours. Still this dream might be a warning; the Elves have taught me not to disregard the warnings of the heart, be it in dreams or just the formless voice in my heart that impels me to go against the wishes of my councillor. And you are right; I have dreamed.

“Like you, the dream has visited me more than once. I too, have seen a field, though mine was green and no corpses lay there. I ran across it for many years, or so the dream made it seem. I too have seen the banner of the White Tree, and the Man beside it.”

“Did you know the Man?” Fastred asked.

“No, I cannot put a name to him, but it seems to me that I should know him. Both in my dream, and when I recall him now he is familiar. A Ranger, I think. Perhaps one of those that came to meet lord Aragorn, and fell at the Black Gate.”

“Or before.”

“Yes.” Éomer was not sure why it would matter where the man fell, or whether they needed to know his name to read the dreams. He continued to recount his dream.

“Unlike you,” he said, “I saw no other man, or living creature, in my dream. Just the man, holding the banner of the High King. He said that he was dead, and could not take the banner away. He bade me do it, so that they could hope once more. But as he spoke, he turned to stone – it covered his skin, his clothes, his face. The stone crept on until it covered me, trapping me inside so that I could not move, or see, or even scream. He spoke in my mind, always does, right before I wake: ‘Break free. You are alive.’”

He did not know what else to say. And Fastred sat, unmoving, for a while, staring at the flames. They leaped and danced. Sparks flew into the air as if they strove to reach the sky and join the stars there, dance with them and sing in the silence of the Void, where nothing lives that is not stars or darkness, sun or moon.

“And still you wish to do this thing?” Fastred asked at length. “Even with the warning of your dream?”

“The dream, it seems to me, warned not against saving my friend, but of doing nothing, waiting while the stone creeps up on us, devours us and traps us helpless beneath its cold. In indecision and despair.

“Nor, it seems to me, does your dream warn against our fight.”

“The Rider dies, my lord.”

“The Horse does not. And it saves the treasure that is left. I know that green stone, have seen it, ten years ago, at lord Aragorn’s breast.”

“Perhaps. Lindir thought the dream heralded hope as well as fear of peril.”

“There you see; even the Elf who will not speak of any forethought, sees hope in your dreams.”

“He saw peril too, my lord.”

“Then we will make sure to avoid it.” Éomer looked up. The Morning Star was clear above, hasting towards the West. He smiled at it: the beauty of the night had chased away the terror of the dream and now his heart was high. Even here, beneath the Shadow’s reign.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sott: (OE) fool or downright fool
> 
> Note on horsy technicalities:  
> Some things are very hard to render in words. When Éomer is forcing Firefoot back under control, he is collecting the horse, and getting the back moving/swinging. In modern terms he is doing a few steps of piaffe: a highly collected trot where the horse does not move more than one hoof-width forward at the time. This, when done on a good horse, feels to the rider as if the horse is both getting very soft, and as if the horse is growing taller at the withers, an upwards-forward feeling of growing, or like a surging wave.   
> The 'slow, cadenced trot' is a passage, also a highly collected trot, but more forward-moving than the piaffe, and with more swung. The horse seems to float in the air for a few seconds between the steps.  
> Since both piaffe and passage are words that don't fit into a ME setting, and certainly not an OE-language feeling, I have tried to give an impression of what it feels and/or looks like instead.


	15. We will not Despair

Húrin arrived alone before sunrise.

Bragloth had been given the last of the watches and he had already begun to prepare a simple meal when Húrin walked into the camp. The two woke the sleeping men; soon the Gates would open and they did not want to have to wait in line. Aduiar might be able to skip ahead, but he was known as an early riser. It would not be strange for him to arrive at dawn. And Húrin wished to talk with them all before they entered.

They huddled in their cloaks, chilled by the morning dew, and ate the hot gruel Bragloth had made. They ate in silence; Éomer waited for Húrin to speak, and the others waited for the king. Húrin ate quickly, the winter had been too hard to waste any meal but there was little time to loose.

“We did not find Bádon and Echil, lord,“ he began. Éomer nodded; he has guessed as much when Húrin returned alone. “But we found signs that someone had made camp on the west side of the forest. My guess is that it is them, but that they, for some reason, have not returned from their scouting of the Drúadan forest. Borondir decided to stay a little while in the hope that they would return quickly.”

“What made you think it was them?” Aduiar would know. “Did they leave a sign?”

“No,” Húrin replied. “We seldom leave signs on enemy ground. Not if we wish to return to the same place: it is too risky. But I know Bádon’s ways, and Echil was taught by him. There were scattered stones from a fireplace where they had camped, but no sign of any fire. The turf had been cut out, and replaced after to cover it up, and the stones hidden well and far apart. Had I not known what to look for, I would not have found it.

“Besides,” he added, “I found one hoof-print in the mud of a near-by brook. It was Echil’s horse; I have tended it enough times to know the shape. A part of the hoof-wall fell off on the road to Ethring. Fastred ensured me that it would not harm it, and that nothing needed be done, and so we let it be. It proved lucky now; without it I might not have recognised the track. It helped me find the camp.”

“Then we know they have arrived. That is good,” Éomer said. He turned to Aduiar. “Do you think we might be able to send someone to talk with them once we all are inside the Gates? Or will it, since they watch the Gates more carefully, arouse suspicion among the guards?”

“I do not know,” Aduiar replied. “I might ask when we pass the Gates. I find that it is easier to go unnoticed when one does not try to be so. I can use the excuse that I want my mare to be exercised every day.”

“That brings to mind a question I have pondered, my lord,” Fastred said. “How do we pass unnoticed back out the Gate if we achieve out goal?”

“I forgot that you were not there,” Éomer said. “We spoke of it in Calembel, but I would rather not discuss it here, on the open Road. We need to have the horses held outside the Gates.”

“Most of the stables are outside the Gates; there are only a few stables in the Citadel, and fewer in the City below. If I claim to worry for my mare, I am sure one of us should be able to slip out each day without much trouble.”

“Good. We should head there first, and find room for the horses. Will it be safe to keep them there?”

“Safe enough. And I think few would dare take your horse, Master Rodhaer, when he has been stabled for a time, and apart from his mare. He looked dangerous enough before they mated.”

Éomer did not dignify that with an answer.

…

The stables were not much to speak of. Most of the stalls were narrow and open at the back, made to fit as many horses as possible. Already they were filling up, and Éomer shook his head at the idea of having Firefoot tied up there for days. There were only a few larger stalls, but they were kept for the horses of dignitaries. There were, however, some pens outside that Éomer deemed good. It would suit Firefoot better not to have to stand in a small stall for several days, and then be asked to run. Aduiar’s mare, which was given one of the large stalls, and Ingold’s gelding, were the only ones locked up in the stables. The rest, at Éomer’s word, were left in one of the pens. As long as the geldings stayed away from Isnod, Firefoot would tolerate them.

“Separate them if there is any trouble,” he told the stable-hands. “The mare with the stallion – they are to breed – and the others in another pen. It will be easier to take out the geldings, and leave the other two. One of us will come each day, if the celebrations allow, to see if all is well, and help move the geldings if need be.”

“There will be one more horse coming,” Aduiar added. “Borondir, one of the men in my company, has been delayed on an errand. Put his horse with the rest, unless he would rather have a stall for it – such matters are not my concern – but make sure it is treated well. He is a most trusted servant.”

The stable-hands bowed and promised to take good care of all the horses, and especially the mare that was Aduiar’s favourite.

“A servant will, if time allows, come each day to exercise her. If none has come by midday – or such time that has been stated the day before – then take her out and lead her for a walk. She may graze if she so wishes.”

They bowed again. Aduiar had turned before he even finished speaking as if he did not care what they would say to his demands. As if it was unthinkable that they would do other than obey. Éomer noted how this made them seem even more eager to appease him.

_They fear him_ , he thought. _Else they would never bow to him like that when he cannot even see._ Another thought struck him. _They fear_ us _, what we might say to him of what they do or not._

His musings were interrupted at that moment; Borondir arrived.

“So swiftly finished?” Aduiar inquired.

“Yes, Lord Mayor,” Borondir said. “The errand was quickly done, and to your satisfaction I dare to hope.”

They waited for Borondir to deliver his horse, and therefore they came later to the Gates than they had aimed for. A crowed had already gathered, though the Gates were still closed.

New gates had been made since the War, large and imposing. The towers on each side had been torn down and new raised, thinner that those that were before, and taller. Éomer recognised the design: the Black Gates had been built that way. The new gates had been fitted between them, broader than the old. Whether the towers had been made to give room for the new gates, or the gates made broader to fit between the towers, none knew for sure. Those that made them had not told. The Gates were made of blackened steel, each with a smaller door wedged into them. On each door was wrought the sign of the Eye, and images covered the Gates. Large so that even the figures at the very top could be seen without straining the eyes.

The gates told of the triumph of the Eye.

One of the smaller doors opened, and to the sound of horns and trumpets the soldiers let the people in one by one, asking each their name and purpose. Along the line of people two officials went. They eyed the crowd, and seemed to shuffle them into two lines. One of them spotted Aduiar and his company.

“Come here, my lord,” he called. “You need not stand with this rabble; come this way.” And with those words he led them past the line and through the other door. There, on the other side, he marked the names of everyone, their occupation and their purpose. Húrin threw a glance at Fastred when he heard the name he gave, but said nothing beyond giving his own. Aduiar did the rest of the speaking, and asked if he could send a man out each day to see to the care of his horse.

“She is a most valued beast,” he said. “From the purest line of the desert.”

“I assure you, my lord” the official answered, “that if he just leaves his name, and the wherefore and whereof he will go, it will be possible until midday the second day of the Celebrations. After that, none will be allowed to leave the City until the Celebrations are over.”

“Why is that?” Aduiar asked. “If one may leave after the first day, as long as one returns, then why not later?”

“I fear I cannot tell, my Lord Mayor. It is a secret; all I can say is that it has to do with the plans for the celebrations, and added security has been ordered on the second day, until nightfall. None may pass the gates after dark, and on the third day none may leave. All are required to observe the proceedings on the last and final day. That is all that I can say.”

“You are to be commended that you so diligently keep the secrets entrusted to you from my men,” Aduiar said. He said no more, leaving the man to believe he knew all about the plans for the celebrations. And he waited for the man to fill the silence.

“I can see you are an honoured servant of our Lord,” the man said. “I do not need to tell you; you already know. After these days, the Great Lord will not need to have lesser men rule in His stead, and the stubbornness of the Steward will be past. All will bend before Him, and worship Him as He should be. His lenience is all that has kept this obstinate people from feeling the righteous wrath of the Great Lord.”

“And the better he will reward those that ever were loyal to him,” Aduiar replied. He smiled, the corner of his lips curling up, but his eyes remained cold. “I must find my quarters; are all papers in order?”

“Yes, lord, they are.” The man hesitated. “There is just one thing that lacks; your guards must leave their weapons here. Only the City Guard and the soldiers of the Lord of Isengard, and those of the Great Lord, will be allowed to carry arms. None are excepted, as you surely know.”

“Of course,” Aduiar said. “Master Rodhaer: gather all the arms from your men and give them to the good man here. You will receive them when we leave. I trust they will be safe here?”

“Of course they will,” the man said. He blinked at Éomer and licked his lips. “They will be kept here, and your names written on the box that holds them; you can be sure that we know who owns what, and we check the boxes every night at sundown. Then the room is locked, and none may enter until morning.”

“That is good to hear,” Aduiar said. “I would not want to lose them, or have to fear that some rebel enemy might use them.”

The official just nodded. He did not meet Éomer’s eyes when he handed him the weapons. A few daggers and knives; the rest Borondir had left with the two Rangers.

Aduiar did not linger. He did not think that they could learn more there, and they had to find the Faithful and make their final plans, or as final as they might make them with the little knowledge they had. He feared that they would not know fully what the enemy planned, until the celebrations began.

Ingold was sent to make contact, for he was best known among the Faithful in Minas Tirith. He returned within the hour with Damrod. The Mayor had, luckily, or perhaps by either foresight or that shrewd knowledge of the hearts that had so often helped him in the past, hired a house to himself and his company on the fourth level. Not too far from the Citadel, but not so far up that none from the lover levels would be able to pass unnoticed.

Ingold had not told Damrod much, but Éomer’s presence did not surprise him. Aduiar’s startled him more.

“What is _he_ doing here?” he asked. “He can _not_ be trusted.”

“Aduiar has long worked in secrecy,” Éomer explained. “Unknown to all except his servant.”

“The servant that now is dead?” Damrod spat. “I thought you more cautious that that, lord king. You would believe his word?”

“I need not,” Éomer replied. “I have long known of him, and of his mission; I bade him to seek to gain the position myself, and to win the confidence of the Enemy’s servants. We could not risk that he would be exposed, and so we, lord Glorfindel and myself, deemed it best that none other knew of him and of Targon.

“I witnessed Targon’s death-wound with my own eyes, and killed the man who gave it.”

“If you say so, lord.” Damrod bowed, but he kept his eyes on Aduiar.

“I do say so. And now we have more important matters to discuss.”

They gathered around the table. The room was two floors up, and Bragloth had been given the duty to watch from the window if any should approach. It was as safe as they could make it. Even so Damrod shifted in his chair, uneasy as if the walls could hear and see, and tell what they had learned.

“First, tell me if there is any news to be told,” Éomer said. “Have you heard anything about the celebrations? Aduiar received a date and time at which he is to be outside the Citadel. Likewise the delegates from the town have been allotted places; at the fifth level they have been ordered to stand when all begins tomorrow. But we know little else.”

Damrod hesitated for a moment. He had crossed his arms and glared at Aduiar. The Mayor returned his stare, but said nothing. Nodding as if he had reached a decision, Damrod began to speak.

“From what we have learned, the celebrations will begin when the Lord of Isengard arrives with the King,” he said. “Around midday they will meet outside the Gates, and all will have to gather to see when they enter the City. At the Citadel the Steward will greet them, and then there will be some other ceremony, or something, but what it is we have not been able to find out. We do know that only a few of the most important dignitaries will attend, and it has something to do with the King. In the evening there is a feast in the Citadel, but once again few are allowed inside. We have managed to get one woman on the list of servants for the feast; she should be able to tell us more once it is finished.”

“That is good news. I doubt we will be able to execute a rescue the first day. There would be too many guards and we no longer have any weapons.” Éomer would have preferred to find out where the escort from Mordor was _right now_ and gone there to rescue Aragorn before he even reached to City. Or break him out for all to see, but he knew they would have no chance of that. “We have to find out where they will keep lord Aragorn when he is not on display, and the best way to reach him there.”

“I am grateful that you have come, king Éomer…” Damrod began. He paused, made to speak, then hesitated again. “I do not know…” he continued. Paused, but then spoke, his mind made up to voice his concern.

“We should not risk your life as well, lord. Much as I would free our King, I doubt that we will manage. We need to get to him first, then get him out of the City and away. I fear there is no place we can hide him in the whole of Gondor.”

“We have horses outside the Gates,” Húrin said. “And we have sent word to Fangorn forest of our purpose; they will send reinforcements; the refugees from Rivendell and those of my people that can be reached will come, for his sake.”

“And Elfhelm will come, if for nothing else than to berate me for my irresponsibility.” Éomer curled the corner of his mouth. “I have asked that a smaller group will try to met us in the Drúadan forest. The Drúadan helped us once before, and we might evade recapture there, for a while even pursuit.”

“That is all good,” Damrod said. “But what of here, inside the walls? Unless we can fetch the King out from whatever prison they may choose, it will do us little good.”

“Bergil says that he recalls some hidden tunnels or hallways that lead from the Citadel and out beyond the walls. Not unlike those we had in the caverns at the Hornburg.”

Damrod turned to look at Bergil. “Unguarded?” he asked. “I doubt that.”

It was Éomer who answered. “We do not know, yet. It is one of the things we must find out. And we must also find some way into the prisons. Do we know something of the prisons they might use?”

Damrod said nothing for a while. He regarded Éomer with eyes that did not reveal the thoughts inside. Éomer looked back. Damrod had grown thin, just this last year from what he could tell; the cheeks were sunken and his eyes bright inside dark eye sockets. It was the look of one that had been fit, but recently lost more weight than was healthy. Or one that had been ill. A scar marred his temple, angry and red. The wound was but newly healed.

“Are you well?” Éomer asked.

“No, but that is of little matter. I am well enough to help, if you will do this.”

Damrod’s shoulders where hunched, but his eyes burned and he held his head high. Sitting there he looked like a strange mixture of pride and defeat, weariness and strength. Anger and despair. His eyes challenged Éomer to deny his words, his worth. Then, as if his body would belie his words, he turned from the table and coughed into his arm. When he turned back, Éomer opened his mouth to speak, but it was Fastred’s voice that answered.

“We would not have come otherwise,” Fastred said. “I spoke against this plan, but the dangers are already braved. Now we must see it through, or we have risked far too much for nothing.”

Éomer smiled at Fastred’s unexpected words. And Damrod nodded, satisfied.

“There are two prisons that we think the enemy might use, both at the upper levels of the City. One lies on the sixth level, just before the entrance to the Citadel. The King was held there ten years ago; they might use it again. It is more secure than any other prison in the City, and close to the Citadel. The other prisons are at the lower levels; I do not think they want to move him trough the City more than they have to.

“But within the Citadel itself, far underground, there are cells hewn into the very rock. This prison is even more likely than the first, more secure and even closer. They say the Master of Isengard likes to keep his prisoners close.”

“If it is more secure, and close, why did they not use that one before?” Éomer asked. “Do any know?”

“That is easily answered,” Aduiar said. “Ten years ago it was not built. The Stewards did not need the added security, and there were fewer to arrest.”

“The half-blood is right,” Damrod confirmed. “The Citadel dungeons were carved out of the rock this very winter. We were not told, we who were taken to do the work, what plans they had already – this I do not doubt – lain.” None said it, but he heard the unspoken question in their minds.

“Yes, I toiled there. It was backbreaking work.”

“But you know your way around?”

“I know more,” Damrod answered. He smiled for the first time since he entered, like unto a wolf smiling at its death with bloodlust upon its tongue. A fey glint was in his eye, but his words were measured and calm. “Though we did not know, yet, the Enemy’s plans for the King, we could see easily the purpose of our work, and know that it would benefit us to have some means to come and go undetected, should we get the chance to ensure it. And we did; the soldiers soon became bored with watching us work. If the King is imprisoned there, I know a way in.”

There was only one problem with the passage Damrod had helped carve; it led out near the Silent Street, and the sixth level. They still would need to get inside the Citadel again to find the passage Bergil had told of.

“One step at a time,” Húrin said. “First we must find out whether Bergil’s route is blocked or guarded. Then, as soon as we can, we must determine where the Chieftain will be held. I, too, doubt that we can snatch him from underneath the lord of Isengard’s nose while he watches.”

“And if the way out is blocked?” Damrod wavered between hope that they would be able to finally strike back – do something that mattered – and despair that their task would be hopeless.

“We find another way,” Éomer said. “Why did you make that passage from the dungeon if you did not think it could be of use? Did you not plan to use it for a rescue or escape, if you had the chance?”

“We did,” he answered. “But we did not think that it would be the King. It is hard, but possible, to hide a fugitive in the City when the prisoner is a lesser man, and the City not already closed, or near enough.”

There was little more to be said, and little to be done inside. Before they knew more, they could not plan further, and so Éomer sent them all away, each with a task, and in the evening they would meet again.

Aduiar, with Bergil, was to go to the Citadel and try to find the passage Bergil remembered. If the two could not gain entrance, they would have to trust to Bádon and Echil to find the exit from without. The two Rangers should be looking anyway; they would need to know where to meet them, should their plans succeed. Húrin would go with Damrod and Borondir to talk with others of the Faithful. Ingold and Bragloth were to stay in the house.

“We need someone to watch here,” Éomer said. “Fastred will go back to check on the horses, and tell Bádon and Echil what Bergil remembers so that they can begin their search.”

“I will? And what about you, my lord?” Fastred did not like the thought of Éomer passing the guards any more than he had to, but he did not want to let his King out of his sight any more than he had had to so far.

“I will accompany the Lord Mayor. A man of his standing should not move around without a guard.”

“No, sire! I will not leave you here to wander off into the Citadel; too many might recognise you there.”

“Only one. And I do not think that Faramir would turn me in.”

“You forget, lord,” Aduiar interjected, “that the lord Imrahil is likely to be there as well. And his loyalties are no longer certain.”

Éomer glared at him, but Aduiar did not let himself be cowed. “You know that I speak true, lord Rodhaer,” he said. “Or you would have been more willing to risk his ship.”

“I know it,” Éomer said. “But I do not like it.”

“It will be better if you stay here with Ingold,” the mayor continued. “Húrin can take your place with us, and Bragloth his. I have brought all the maps I had of Minas Tirith; they might help you formulate a plan while we scout.”

Éomer glared at him again.

“Aduiar is right,” Húrin said. “It would be wiser that you did not show yourself too much. Lord of horses. Besides, I know you did not sleep well this night. You were awake when my watch began, and your own began when I could find my rest. A few hour’s sleep will do you good.”

“What good is it to be a king, when everyone still orders you around,” Éomer growled, but he complied.

The hours passed slowly for the two that had to wait and most for Ingold, for the king followed Húrin’s advice and slept. But for the others time passed quickly, as time will do when the task is large, and time not.

Aduiar’s name did not bring them as far as they had hoped. He was allowed to the gates of the Citadel, but there the guards turned them away. It took Húrin some time to find one willing to take a bribe. The guard, a lesser captain of the Corsairs, agreed to take a message to the Steward’s scribe, and once Húrin had let him know Aduiar’s name, he was also willing to take them to the Citadel itself to await their answer there.

They followed him through the tunnel, up to the place of the Fountain. Húrin was the only one that had not seen the Citadel before, the White Tower and behind it the House of the King, the Hall of Feasts to the north and behind them, straight towards the east, the Embrasure at the very tip of the keel.

No tree grew there; of the White Three nothing but a blacked stump was left. If one knew where to look.

Bergil knew, the only one that had seen it before the Shadow fell. He walked behind Aduiar with bent neck, glad to be able to hide his face. They were shown to a smaller house beside the Merethrond and told to wait inside until called upon. Two guards stood at the door, but the doors were open towards the Fountain, and there were windows besides.

Húrin had not expected the guards to be so hard to bribe, and he said as much.

“They are all on edge,” Aduiar replied. He kept his voice low so as not to be overheard. “I do not doubt that on any other day, a bribe would be the only way to be let in, whether one had been called or not. But now, none will take it.”

“One did, at least,” Húrin said. “Another day I would resent it, but we need to get inside.”

“And so we shall. Be patient and still. You are here only as my guard, and have no interest in whether I am let in or not.”

“As your guard it is my task to make sure you get what you want: an audience with the Steward, or one of his men.”

“And you have performed most admirably; I will remember to reward you graciously. Now be quiet.”

Húrin did as ordered. He marked the guards and soldiers passing outside the hall. There were many, more than he liked, but then one guard was always worse than none. And none would have made him suspicious.

All wore the Red Eye together with whatever other device their uniforms bore, and only those, or so he guessed them to be, of Corsair decent had any resemblance to the Men of Gondor. But the servants were.

“Mayor Aduiar? Come this way, please.”

The man was not a soldier, nor did he look like a servant. He was dressed in clothes that were plain enough, but they were all black. Around his arm he wore a white band of cloth, and in his hand a quill.

“I am Golwen the son of Gweth, the Steward’s humble scribe,” the man said. He bowed and with a flowing gesture showed them which way to go. “At your service.”

“Of course,” Aduiar replied. “You have come to take us to the Steward. Lead the way.”

“If you will follow me,” he said. “I fear the Steward has to much to do, now right before the celebrations begin. But I assure you that I am more than capable of helping you with whatever you wished to speak with the Lord Steward about.”

“We shall see,” Aduiar said, but they followed Golwen’s lead.

Down hallways where their boots echoed off the walls, past columns and windows opening out to what was once a garden, up winding stairs so narrow that Húrin could hardly fit his shoulders between the walls. Húrin soon lost track of where they had gone, but neither Aduiar nor Bergil looked as if they were concerned.

At last they were shown into a room. One large window opened out to view the City and the fields below. It had nothing to lock the wind and weather outside, nothing but a thin hanging that let in more than it kept out. A desk and several rows of shelves filled with scrolls stood there, but nothing else.

“Lord Mayor,” Golwen said. “Please sit.”

Aduiar sat. Húrin remained standing by the door, and Bergil by the mayor’s chair.

“Let me first, since the Steward has no time to see me today, give into your hands the gifts I had brought to him in celebration of the coming days,” Aduiar began. He waved Bergil forward and the young man laid several of the finest furs they had brought from Fangorn on the table.

Aduiar said nothing while the clerk looked through the small pile. In it he found a purse. It held three coins – the same that Éomer had sent to Aduiar many days ago in Calembel.


	16. Where Trust is Found.

Fastred pushed his way through the streets. There were people everywhere, pressing in from all sides, and he was not used to it. He remembered thinking that Edoras had been too large when he first came there, with too many people all the time.

Edoras was nothing compared to this.

The press of people eased somewhat when he neared the Gate. The pressure also became all one way; he was the only one walking towards the Gate, not from it. There, on his left, he could see the guardhouse where they had delivered their weapons. He wondered if he would be allowed his back for his trip outside. Probably not. He decided not to even try; what use would one dagger be, anyway? And they would, most likely, write it up, or down, and he would have to give it back when he returned. That dagger was lost, more likely than not.

The shift had changed. New soldiers, and new officials, meant new explanations and questions. Fastred had so far avoided speaking. He could speak the Common Tongue well enough, but it was too easy to hear that it was not his language. He knew he did not pronounce all the words as he should, but sometimes he could not even hear what the difference was, and his mouth seemed incapable of forming the right sounds even when he did hear.

“You wish to leave?”

The clerk sounded as if he could not understand why anyone would leave the City, why anyone would want to leave or even think about it, much less doing so.

“For a short time only,” Fastred explained. “My master, the Mayor Aduiar of the town of Calembel, wishes me to see to his horse. We had to stable them outside the walls, and the mare is most valuable to him.”

“You came only this morning.”

Fastred mustered what patience he had. If he regarded the clerk as a particularly difficult horse, a mare in heat perhaps, or one of the slower ones that learned late, perhaps it would be easier to deal with him?

“This mare is the apple of the Mayor’s eye,” he said. “A most prized mare that he hopes to breed the best of foals from once he finds a stallion worthy of her. She is sleek and fleet of foot, sensitive and brave. Her coat outshines even the sun. He does not like to let her out of his sight, and worries for her in a new place. Were it possible, he would bring her into his house, I have no doubt. The Mayor will likely send one of us out every day, and more than once a day, to tend to her and make sure she is treated right. At least for as long as it is still possible.”

The clerk looked at him. Fastred shrugged; there was little more for him to say, and the clerk seemed to give in. He scribbled something in his book, and gave a Fastred a token.

“Show this at the Gate when you return,” he said. “It will get you in quickly. If you do not return before nightfall you will be arrested and held until the celebrations are over and the Steward, or his representative, has time to judge your case.”

“I understand,” Fastred replied. He took the token and left, happy to be outside once more.

The horses had settled somewhat. The geldings clustered in one corner of the enclosure, not daring to move closer to Firefoot. His mare was eating, undisturbed. Fastred shook his head.

“You cannot have taken that quickly,” he said. She lifted her head at the sound of his voice and gave a small nicker in greeting. But she did not come to him. “Be that way,” he said. “You always were.”

“Shall we move the horses, master?” one of the stable-hands asked.

“Has there been any trouble?”

“No, master, not as such, but the stallion will not let the others move out of that corner. They seem afraid of him.”

Fastred regarded the stable-hand. His was a young man, hardly more than a boy, and he did not look like he knew even half as much about horses as any child half as young did in the Mark. He looked more afraid of Firefoot than any of the geldings; Húrin’s horse even looked as if he considered whether flirting with the stallion would get him closer to the food.

_Do not get your hopes up, Bereth_ , he thought. _He_ does _know the difference between you and a mare; whatever we might tease your owners about._

Out loud he asked: “Have you ever handled a breeding stallion before?”

The boy shook his head. Fastred had thought as much.

“Just leave them be. Make another pile of food in the corner so the geldings might get something to eat, but leave them unless they begin to fight. If they do, unless I, or Master Rodhaer, are here, move the geldings out. They will be easier to handle. Leave the stallion and the mare to us.” He turned to Firefoot: “And _you,_ good sir, behave. I know her well and _she_ will not abide a bully.” Firefoot did not even turn to look at him. Fastred sighed, and went inside the stable to look at Aduiar’s mare.

She had been given the largest of the stalls, despite her size. It was more than large enough for her to turn and lie down, with doors to close so that she did not need to stand bound. It was large enough to hold one of the great horses the farmers of Gondor used to pull their ploughs – if only barely. It had probably been made in the hope of stalling the war-horses of Dol Amroth, but the Prince had come by boat, and so the mare had been given the pride of place. Aduiar must have made quite an impression. The mare looked like most horses used to being held indoors; calm enough, if not a little bored.

“Hello, little lady,” he greeted her. “Do they treat you well?”

The mare danced around a little in her stable. She did not look as if she had been travelling the last few days, and that far and hard. She seemed quite fresh, and eager to be let out. Well, Aduiar did say to take her out. Perhaps there was more to it than an excuse for him to seek out Bádon and Echil?

“How long since she was fed?” he asked another stable-hand. This youth was older, and he looked as if he at least would know what a child half his age would know in the Mark.

“When the bells struck,” was all the answer he received. It took Fastred some time to figure it out, but they would be fine, he guessed. He would have to take it easy first, that was all. A little exercise would do her good if she were dancing around like that.

She was a good ride, he decided after they had come some distance from the stables. Fleet-footed and quick, and with a very smooth gait. A true little palfrey. She did not trot, not willingly, but her running gait was so pleasant that he guessed none had wanted her to do anything else. Her hindquarters were a little stiff, though, and she held her tail too high. He could hardly feel her back moving. Not good. The best way he knew to remedy that was in the trot, so trot she would have to try.

She changed the minute he asked. First she stopped. Then she backed. She stamped her feet and snorted her displeasure. He nudged her on. “Forward, girl,” but she would not. She danced around. She kicked. It did not help. Then she tried to rear, but Fastred turned her head and forced her down. She planted all four legs on the ground and refused to budge.

“Look here, little lady,” Fastred said. “This is for your own good; I promise it will feel better if only you will try.”

A snort of disbelief.

“Well, then,” Fastred told her. “Have it your way.” He stood up in the stirrups and broke off a twig from the tree above. She saw it, and seemed to know what it meant. She kicked and bucked and turned, fast as lightning. He let her; he was a Rider, he could keep his seat. When she stilled once more, he asked her again to move forward.

She did not budge. Again.

He took the thin stick and tapped carefully at her right hind-leg. She kicked after it, and then she began to run.

“At least you move the right way this time,” he said. “But this is not what I asked. Perhaps I need to ask another way.”

He stopped her and dismounted.

“See here,” he said. “I do not ask for much, only that you lift your leg and move it forward when I do this.” He tapped her leg again. She tried to rush past him, but he stopped her. “No,” he said. “Try again.” Again the same, and then again, until she calmed, and moved her leg forward and underneath her body.

The snort that came was of a different kind that before. It was as if her body let go of some tension and said: _“At last! Why could I not do that before?_ ” Her head lowered and she shook her whole neck. Her ears were loose and it sounded like she would explode in snorts and grunts.

“There: that was not so bad.”

She did not deign to look at him, as if insulted that he had been proven right. He smiled, he almost laughed; this was what he loved above all else. Too little time to train the last ten years, too many missions and evil things to scout. People to keep safe. Never just a horse and him, finding out what had gone wrong in the training, and figuring out how to fix it.

He was too happy; he did not hear the twigs that broke beneath soft boots behind him.

…

“Have you done nothing?”

Borondir glared at Mablung. He and Bragloth had been taken all around the City, or so it felt. Damrod wanted to make sure he was not followed, and that he had not led, nor would lead, any of the enemy to the house Aduiar had rented, nor to this house. One of the few houses the Faithful held that they felt certain their enemies did not know. It had taken them more than an hour to get there, and more time still before Mablung had arrived. He was the last to do so. And after waiting so long, all they could say was that they had laid no plans to rescue the King.

“ _I_ ,” Mablung said, “have been imprisoned the last four weeks. I was surprised they let me go; I did not expect to see the sun again this time, and least of all that they would let me out before the celebrations.”

“And in that time, you made no plans? You did not think about what could have been done, had you been free?”

“Would you have?” Bragloth asked. “I must confess that what plans I might have laid, in that position, would be for my own escape, rather than another’s.”

If he were to be honest with himself, Borondir had to admit that nothing more could be expected, not from Mablung. But he did not want to be.

“I did,” Mablung answered before Borondir could speak. “I did think of it, though I tried to banish it from my mind. It was both consolation, and the one thing that was hardest to endure. I knew, or thought I knew, that I would not even be given a chance to see the King. I would never be able to make use of any plan; I would rot in the dark before they ever let me out. And yet I could not keep my mind off it.”

“Well, then?”

“Nothing. I could not think of any way; all my plans stranded before I could begin. Unless we can find a way inside, we will not succeed.”

“Inside is not the problem,” Damrod denied. “Getting him out of the City is.”

“We have those things in hand,” said Bragloth.

“How?”

“Trust me,” Bragloth said. “We will find a way; right now Bergil, Beregond’s son, and Húrin of the North accompany Aduiar of the South to the Citadel. Bergil knows the place well, and he told us of a passage he once found, playing as a child. It was well hidden and out of use then, and there is hope it was forgotten, and still is now. It led outside the City walls. Bergil will attempt to find it, and to see if it is secret still.”

“One problem will be solved, if Bergil is right,” Mablung agreed. “But how to reach the King?”

“What prison were you held at?” Damrod asked.

Mablung waved away the unspoken question in Damrod’s eye. “The usual,” he said. “Just outside the walls of the seventh circle.” Mablung rubbed his chin; his mouth was half covered by his hand. It looked as if he did not even know what his hand did after he had waved off Damrod’s concern. His left hand lay upon the table. Two of the fingers were crooked and it shook slightly.

“You know that place well.” Damrod said nothing more about the manner Mablung had gained that knowledge.

The former ranger shifted in his chair. He drew his arms around himself, hiding his left hand underneath the elbow of his right.

“You know I do.”

“How could we reach a prisoner there?”

“You can’t!” Mablung’s right hand continued to move across his mouth, rubbing his jaw, his neck. Moving down to rub his arm. His teeth clenched, and his body too.

“Look,” he said. “I know better than any of you what being in that prison means. I know the smell, the damp, the cold. I know the darkness and the walls and the clammy stones. The …” he stopped himself. Took a breath, then continued on. “If I could, I would free every slave within those walls. Every prisoner, and _him_ most of all. More, even, than the King.”

Borondir did not understand whom he meant, but it was clear that both Damrod and Bragloth did.

“Lord Faramir will not leave as long as the King is held against him.” Damrod looked at Mablung until he caught his gaze and Mablung nodded.

“I know. But even so, I see no way. There will be twice, or even thrice the guards when the King is held there. Of that I have no doubt. And to get past them, we will need more than luck and wishes.”

He unclenched his arms enough to take some paper and a quill. He spread it out on the table and began to sketch the layout of the prison, as well as he could remember it. “Here,” he pointed, “lay the cells. One row above the ground, and one below. What windows there are, all have bars, and all the bars new. Or at least they are checked.”

“How often?” Borondir would know.

“Every day, as long as there are prisoners in the cell. I do not know if empty cells are checked.”

“Then they will not help us.”

“No, and the windows underground would be too small, even without the bars. And some of those cells don’t have windows at all. Those are the most secure, and I would be surprised if the King was not kept in one of them.”

“What other ways could there be?”

“The doors.” Mablung looked at Borondir as if he had no sense, or lacked even common knowledge. “It is a prison. There are no hidden doors or tunnels; unlike the Citadel there would be no need for any means of escape for those within.”

“So if the King is held there, we will have to fight our way in, past the guards and locked doors, and the same to get outside, unless they manage to shut the doors behind us, and trap us within.”

“Exactly.”

“How many are you here?”

“I realise, Master Borondir, that you are used to the way things work in Calembel. But we have no mayor here to turn a blind eye. We are few, and most of us must stay in hiding.”

“What I mean, Mablung,” Borondir explained, “is that if we have to fight our way in, we need more people. King Éomer and his men are good fighters, and I suspect that Mayor Aduiar knows more of combat than I thought just a week ago; we might be able to force a way inside with just the twelve of us – should you two choose to aid – but we will then be trapped too easily. We need enough men to hold the doors so the soldiers cannot trap us inside.”

“That much I gathered.”

“And?”

Damrod sighed. Before Mablung could reply, he said: “I do not know if anyone else would be persuaded to risk such a fight.” He looked at the two young boys that had been sitting with them, quietly listening the whole time. “Habadwain and Nathron here are young, but many of the others have families, or they are old or crippled. Those that would fight have all been taken over the years, all but a few. Mablung and I are all that is left of those that have fought before.”

“Then let us hope the King is not held in that prison,” Bragloth said. “And not give in before we know that all is lost. If even then.”

“Well said.” Damrod smiled. “There is another chance. If the new dungeon in the Citadel is used, we might have a better chance. Habadwain and myself were among those conscripted to work on their construction. We know most of it well, and we worked on a passage that will take us there unseen.”

“Worked on?” Mablung asked.

“Yes. It is not completely finished.”

“You did not say that before,” Borondir said. “It seemed to us that it was ready to be used.”

“Almost ready.” Damrod took the crude map that Mablung had made and turned it around to make a new on the back. “Here are the gardens. Behind this shed the stone is soft, and covered both by the building and the clinging plants that grow like weeds. Out there is where the passage leads; we have but to cut through the last part of the stone. We should be able to break through in less than a day, if four of us work hard. It will take us to the dungeons.”

“And if the king be not there?”

“Then we will worry about that when we know. Did you loose all nerve this past month?” Damrod asked. “You were ever the one to speak of fighting, and of deeds. Mablung: if we can free the King, we will have done more to thwart the Enemy and his plans than we could ever hope. And Lord Faramir would be freed from the one burden that weighs him down and traps him.”

Mablung looked away. He closed his eyes, a wince contorted his face and for a moment he looked as if he was in pain. Lost in the dark.

“What happened?”

“Do not ask.”

They did not. They sat in the dark room while outside the sun shone, like she had done for many days. The buds sprang out in the trees and the new green spread on the ground of the Pelennor fields. The birches and the oaks and the roans on the hills of Mindolluin sprouted spring-green ears of leaves, singing _spring has come_ for all that had ears, or eyes to see.

Across the field lay the Grey Wood where, in a clearing, a horse and rider moved with ease. Back swinging and head low the mare sighed as the tension she had not known eased with each step. Her rider smiled, steering her in circles, round and round. And then he stopped, and dismounted. He patted her neck.

“Good girl,” he said. “You see: the trot is not all bad.”

A shadow moved among the trees, and on the other side of the clearing, a twig bent but did not break. The rider did not notice. He took the reins and led the horse towards the trees.

“Do not move.”

Fastred froze in his track. An arm curled around his neck, trapping him.

“Too careless, Rohir. Too careless by far.”

He knew the voice. “Do not the Dúnedain have better things to do than sneak up on their friends?” The mare danced at the end of the reins. “I though such games were played by Elves, or children. Sometimes it is hard to know which are what.”

Bádon released him. “There are much wisdom to be learned from Elves,” he said, and laughed. No more than a soft chuckle, but still a laugh. “Children as well, can teach us much. These games keep us sharp. Yours, it seems, do not.”

“If you had been an enemy, the mare would have attacked.”

“Are you so sure?” Bádon’s eyes doubted him, and the mocking laugh was in his voice.

“Aduiar told me the people of the South use mares for war. And I have seen them defend their foals. Their hooves are as hard and sharp as any the stallions have.”

“Well, you should know horses. But tell me why you wasted time playing with her. Since you are here, my guess is that your lord has some message for us.” He cupped his hands and made a sound like to some bird. Fastred knew not which: the songs of birds had not been his study.

Echil stepped out from underneath the trees and crossed the clearing. He said nothing, letting his elders do the speaking.

“I did not waste time,” Fastred said. “I was keeping my cover, which, if any were around, you two have blown. I was sent by the Mayor Aduiar to see to his horse. To make sure that she was well tended for and to take her out for a walk.”

“A walk? That looked like trot to me.”

“Her hindquarters were not engaged, and her back was stiff. I merely loosened her up: it is good training for her, and part of her care.” The two rangers glanced at each other, and Fastred decided to change the subject.

“As for you two. Éomer king wishes that you seek out the entrance, or end depending on which way you see it, of the passage Bergil has spoken of. It will be to the north of the City, near the Mindolluin. If you find it, you should meet us there when we attempt to break the king Elessar out. If not wait at the camp you have set. Bring the horses – we will find some way to take them here before the Gate is closed for good.”

“When?”

“We do not yet know, but our best guess is that we will attempt the rescue at night. Probably before the last day of celebration. The City will be closed for all, in or out, at midday on the second day. We will try to get word to you before then, but after that none can pass the gates.”

“One of us will keep an eye on this place, while the other seeks the entrance; you can meet us here. We have not been able to scout far ahead into the Drúadan forest, but we know where we can enter. From there, we will have to rely on king Éomer’s memories, and our woodcraft.”

There was not much else to say. If they had enough time, they would send one more messenger before nightfall, but they could not risk that any of them should be caught outside after dark. And it was already well after midday. Fastred walked the mare back, and made sure she did not lack any comfort he could provide.

The owner of the stables saw Fastred as he returned, and watched him while he worked. Before he left, the man approached him.

“You are skilled,” he said.

“I am skilled at many things,” Fastred replied. “Which skills do you speak of?”

“Not deceptions,” the man answered. “Nor accents. You are not from Gondor, my friend. Your speech betrays you, and your skill with horses.”

“My father worked with horses. He cared for the breeding mares. From a young age I learned from him. It is a valuable skill, though not my profession.”

“And your speech?”

Fastred hid the wince that threatened to overcome his face.

“My mother hailed from Rohan. However much my fellows teased, I was not able to shed her influence on my tongue. It did not help that I was sent to foster in Rohan for some years when I was young.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why were you sent to Rohan?” The man narrowed his eyes. He crossed his arms over his chest, or rather under it, and over his stomach, which was on the fat side. He leaned against a fence “And why, I wonder, if you trained there, do you not work with horses as a trade?”

“I said my mother hailed from there; my parents wanted me to know the land she came from, and the trade. But I have had not luck in securing any work with horses, and a man must eat.” He shrugged, as if it were of little consequence.

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Believe what you want. Few have the luxury of horses these days.”

“That is true enough.” The man regarded him for a while. “Work for me.”

“What?”

“You heard me. I need good horsemen, and the ones I have are woefully lacking in skill. I could use one like you, even if it was only for a short while to train the boys I have.”

Fastred looked at him in disbelief. First the man questions him as if he were a spy – which admittedly he was – and then he offers him a job? Was this a trap?

“Look,” the man said. He stood up from where he slouched against the fence. “I understand that you work for a Mayor, and it will seem like a step down to come here, but I have plans, big plans, and I will need someone like you. One that knows horses well. Politics are not for the likes of us, but great men like fine horses. Always have and always will. It can make us set for life.” He moved as he spoke, too close for Fastred’s liking, and before he knew how it had happened, the man had put one arm around his back. As if they were the best of friends.

“ _Friend_ ,” Fastred said. “I would dearly like to work with horses, but I dare not leave my current employer right now. After the celebrations perhaps he will let me leave. We can speak then, if the offer still stands.”

The man winked at him. “Of course. Say no more: I understand. But do not linger too long; you would not want another to take the place I offer before you have the chance.”

“Of course,” Fastred replied. He managed to slip out of the man’s embrace. “Now, if you will excuse me; should I be late to return through the Gates neither you nor my current lord will be able to make further use of me; I will end up in a dudgeon, and I much prefer the open air.”

And with that he made his escape.


	17. No Memories of Faces from the Past?

Golwen looked at the purse lying between the furs. He cast a quick look at the men before him. He knew of Aduiar of Harondor, of course, by name if not by looks; he kept a close eye on any report filed about Calembel. The other two he had not heard of – and where was Aduiar’s servant? The old one, not this new young one that looked like he had been in a fight. Targon. That was the name. The one that, according to all reports, never left Aduiar’s side for long. The more evil-minded joked that they were old lovers.

These new men were not citizens of Calembel. Of that he was certain. And now the furs and the purse. Golwen had seen bribes before. Taken some, when the occasion warranted it. But he had not heard that Aduiar was in the habit of offering them. Was he tiring of his small town and aimed for better prospects and richer pickings? Or was this a test of his own loyalties? He fingered the purse. There was no reaction he could read from any of the men.

Only three coins? He could not feel anything else. That was a meagre bribe. Aduiar was watching him.

“Open it,” he said. “Then decide what you will do.”

Three coins, just as he had felt. Two of them were common enough; half-crowns, one old with the Steward’s mark. It must have been made in Denethor’s time, before the war – enough of them were still in use. The other showed the head of the King, or what he assumed was the King’s portrait – he had himself never seen the King’s face. Well, soon enough he would. The coin was worn on one side, nearly too worn to see the sign engraved there: the Eye. His fingers found the third coin, smaller than the first two. He brought it out to look at it.

There, in his hand, lay the Horse.

He looked up. He, like all the Faithful, knew that sign.

“What is this?” he whispered.

“I think you know,” Aduiar replied. The Mayor turned to the man at the door.

“It is clear,” the man said. “None are outside.”

“Perhaps you should do the honours.” Aduiar sat back, as if he were to watch some play.

The man nodded. “I am Húrin,” he said. “A captain of the Northern Dúnedain. The young man here is Bergil, son of Beregond who saved the Steward’s life ten years ago.” He hesitated for a moment. “We have come because of a letter you sent to the innkeeper in Calembel. Ingold showed it to me no more than ten days ago.”

“It was not the only one,” Golwen said. He recognised the names.

“It was the only one that reached us,” the man – Húrin – said. “But when we heard, we came. We will need your help.”

“Of course.”

He waited for Húrin to continue. The ranger quickly explained the situation and what they needed to do, and know.

“It will look suspicious if I keep you here too long,” Golwen said when Húrin finished. “And unfortunately I do not know of the passage you speak of, Master Bergil. I suggest that you go to see for yourself while I provide what information I have to Húrin and Mayor Aduiar. It will save us time, and you might be able to move unnoticed on your own. You should know your way around well enough to be mistaken for one of the servants.”

“Your counsel is wise, Golwen,” Aduiar said. “Bergil, if anyone asks, tell them I sent you to the Houses of Healing for some remedy or other. Let it be one for headaches; you could use one, so it will not be wholly wasted should a guard accompany you there.”

Bergil nodded. “Yes.” He left the room.

It took him some time to get his bearings. Bergil had not been often in this part of the Citadel as a child, and the changes were many, though small: the hangings on the walls that he remembered were taken down, and new put up in their place. New statues added, and the old moved around. He followed the stairs down the tower, winding round and round. Once he turned the corner onto a new floor and almost took the wrong turn. There stood the statue of Anarion that belonged outside the Hall. Already! He needed to find the door that would take him outside. But then he realised that it could not be the Hall: there were no guards and he had still not reached the ground. It was the statue that had been moved.

He walked on. Down the last swirl of steps and past the conference chambers. On one of the walls he saw a tapestry from the South. It showed no images, but strange patterns swirled and whirled in many colours. It was as if it caught the eye and would not let go. Despite the urgency of his errand, Bergil stopped before it, fascinated by the play of forms and lines and colours.

Before he could move on, he heard a sound. More than one: footsteps and a voice. They came towards him, and the corridor was narrow. No doors close by that he could slip through. No niches he could hide in. He tried to remember the etiquette Aduiar had tried to teach him that he might play his role more confidently. What was the most important? Never turn away from those of high rank. Keep your head down and do not look them in the eye unless ordered to, but never show your back whatever you may do. Time to put it to the test.

Whoever came, they were right around the corner, coming from the Hall. More than two, but how many he could not tell. He pressed his back to the wall beside the tapestry and lowered his head in what he hoped was a suitably humble pose. _Pay no attention to the lowly servant-boy_ , he prayed. _Just walk on past._

They rounded the corner. Four men, two of them guards and the other two… tall, dark-haired, but their shoulders were bowed and their hair had streaks of grey. One older and one younger. Bergil chanced a quick look up from underneath his hair, and quickly looked down and bowed and held his breath. He knew that face. Worn and pale it was, not unlike the memories of the last days he had seen him.

_Do no know me_ , he fervently wished. Or was it _Remember me! Do you not know my face?_ He did not even know himself. He thought that he could feel the other’s eyes burn through his years and leave his soul naked and exposed, his secrets bared and his disguise torn away.

“No, uncle,” the lord Faramir said. “I have not been told. I was only ordered to clean out all prisons above the fourth level and to have guards in all of them.”

They passed by, the guards following each step they took. Bergil could hear the last words before they passed out of hearing:

“The dungeons here are the most secure.”

He had not known him. Bergil sank to the floor, not sure, even now, if he was relieved or not. _Relieved_ , he berated himself. _You are relieved. Why should he recognise the face of a boy ten years grown? A boy whose only merit was to be his father’s son, and the friend of the_ perian _?_ No. No reason, and that was a good thing, he tried to convince himself.

He rested his head against the wall. The headache pounded worse than in many days and the stone was cool. A cooler draft brushed down his head, easing the tension behind his temples.

A draft?

He got to his feet. He was closer to the north door than he had thought. Quickly he walked the last length, and found the door open and unguarded. Servants were passing from the butteries below to the kitchens beside the Merethond, and Bergil was able to blend with them down the last stairs underground.

Once down in the rooms underneath the Tower, he found it. The entrance was hidden by a statue so old and worn that it was hard to say whom it was supposed to be. He remembered it now; he remembered the day he had found it. It was just as it was now; an empty corridor that seemingly had no other purpose than to take one from one buttery to another. It was the statue that had caught his interest that day, so old, with nothing that told him whom it was supposed to be.

Bergil listened. No sound of footsteps here; the servants were busy elsewhere. He peeked around one corner. Empty. Around the other. Empty there too. Working fast in case someone should come, he checked if the statue indeed was in the right place and the entrance was there still.

It was. And there were no signs that anyone had been there in a long, long time. A thick layer of dust covered the floor inside. He was careful not to disturb it, just in case, and hurried back. If anyone knew about the passage, it was not guarded from inside the Citadel.

…

They needed some good news, but good news, it seemed, was rare.

“What _do_ you know?” Húrin asked when Golwen once again could only reply: “I do not know” to his questions.

“Little, it would seem,” the clerk answered. “Most of the plans for the celebrations are being kept secret. I know that they will start tomorrow at noon, or around that time, with a procession through the City. All representatives have been given places along the route, and none are permitted to leave until they have passed inside the Citadel. The Citizens have also been allotted places, and must keep in their allotted space until the guards give them leave to go. For those that are not given places within the walls, but for some reason want to see, they are allowed to stand outside the Gates, along the road. The lord of Isengard will meet the King and his escort outside the City. They will wait on the Eastern Road a mile or so outside the walls. From there the procession will start, but that is all we know.”

“Where will the King be? First or last?” Húrin would know.

“I would guess somewhere in the middle,” Aduiar offered. “There he will be easier to guard.”

“You are probably right,” Golwen said. “I also think that the lord of Isengard will be close to him. Outside the Citadel, the Steward will meet them. To welcome them inside and, to use the words of the messenger ‘express the gratitude of the people of Gondor for the protection of their lands by the Great Lord, and for His hospitality to their king’.”

“ _Hospitality_?” Húrin could hardly believe what he heard. He knew the Enemy would twist the truth, but… _hospitality?_

“So the message read. I think not even the Steward knows much more. The servants prepare for a feast, but beyond that... The people will be shown demonstrations of the Enemy’s might. Both on the second and the third day the people will be assembled, or as many as can be safely gathered, for such demonstrations, and as well the nobles and the great ones will have additional entertainments each day. But what part the King will play is not clear.”

“Very well,” Aduiar said. “We will find out soon enough, I fear, but we will not be able to do anything during the public displays; it matters not whether we know their plans for that. What we most dearly need to find out is where they will hold him the rest of the time. Your guess is as good as ours, perhaps better.”

“From what I have learned, I think they will move him around. All the prisons – and it feels like more are made each day – close to the Citadel have been emptied, the prisoners either released as a show of the Enemy’s mercy, or moved to prisons elsewhere. And the guard at each is doubled.”

“ _Mercy,_ ” Húrin grumbled under his breath, but he said no more of it. Raising his voice, he turned to the problem at hand. “They do not want anyone to be able to guess where he is held.” More bad news. They did not have enough men to strike at several prisons at once. “We need a way to find out, we cannot search them all, and if we fail but once, I doubt we will have a second chance.”

“They might try to throw us off the scent,” Aduiar said. “But that is a game I am even more used to than are they. Damrod spoke of a new prison within the Citadel itself, what do you know about it?”

“It lies deep beneath the ground. One door leads in and out; the stairs down are close to the old quarters of the Guard. The soldiers still use the hall for their meals, and gather there when they are off guard,” Golwen answered.

“They will use that one,” Aduiar said.

“How do you know?” Húrin asked. “And if you know, why have you not told us before?”

“I have surmised, nothing more,” the Mayor answered. “And that took time. I needed to know more before I could conclude, but I am quite certain.

“The lord of Isengard wishes to throw any that might wish to rescue the King off the scent of his plan. And so he needs to confuse all, and keep all guessing. Still, it cannot be denied that the new dungeons are better suited for his purposes than any other prison. He will want the King close, easy to fetch, and they will not want to move him much outside unless he is purposely shown off to the people. For that, Isengard must keep the King in the Citadel.”

“Your reasoning is sound, so far,” Golwen said. “But the prison on the sixth circle will serve him as well as the new for that purpose: the King was held there ten years ago. And the new prison is not finished: many of the cells lack doors, or locks.”

Aduiar inched his head in recognition of his words.

“That is a concern, but Isengard need only one cell to hold the King. And one prisoner, chained and guarded, could be held even without doors for a few days. It would be more secure than the prison outside, with the only way out through the house of the guards, and being within the Citadel itself.

“Besides,” Aduiar continued. “Were would one put something one wished to hide?”

“Somewhere none will of think to search,” Húrin answered. He shrugged. “It is common sense.”

“Yes. That is what anyone would do,” said Aduiar. “But it is far better to put it in clear sight, for there few will think to look for it. It is too obvious to consider.”

“So: the new dungeons,” Golwen said.

“The new dungeons.”

“Right, so that is our best guess,” Húrin said. “Will you be able to confirm that for us, Golwen? If we are wrong…”

“Not until they are here,” Golwen answered. “I am sorry that I cannot do better than that. The…”

“Someone is coming,” Húrin cut him off. “I hear footsteps outside.” The ranger had not strayed far from the door during their conversation, ever listening for movement outside. Golwen quickly hid the coins.

“These pelts are of very fine quality,” he began in a voice much louder than needed. Aduiar raised an eyebrow at what he deemed too crude a ruse, but Golwen ignored him and continued in the same, loud voice. “I am sure that the Steward will be delighted at the gift.”

There was a knock on the door. Golwen called for whomever it was to enter, and Húrin stood to one side, the epitome of a dutiful guard.

The door opened to reveal Bergil. He was slightly out of breath, and in his hand he held some kind of plant. Behind him stood one of the guards, one of the dark-skinned Southrons.

“Ah, Bergil,” Aduiar called. “You are late returning; I feared you had gotten yourself lost.”

“Do you know this boy?” the Southron asked.

“It is my new servant. Not as good as my old one yet, but he is learning.”

“I found him skulking in the corridors outside the conference-rooms on the south-side,” the guard said. “He claimed you had sent him to the Houses of Healing, but he was far from that place.”

“My apologies,” Aduiar said. “I did indeed send him, but I forgot that he is new and has not accompanied me here before. He must have gotten lost; the Citadel is very confusing for those that do not know their way around.”

“And your name?” the guard asked.

“I am Aduiar of Harondor,” the answer came. “The Mayor of Calembel.”

The guard bowed. A Mayor had standing.

“I regret any inconvenience this may have caused,” he said.  Aduiar waved him off.

“I will instruct my servant better in the future,” he said in return. “I commend you for your diligence and sharp eyes.”

The guard bowed again and withdrew. They said nothing until Húrin confirmed that he had gone.

“I am sorry,” Bergil said. “I had no way of avoiding him.”

“What is that?” Húrin asked. He pointed to the plant Bergil held.

“I don’t know; it grew outside a window. I was too far from the Houses of Healing and I did not think he would believe I was that lost. I needed something to show for having been there.”

“Ivy? The Southron guards do not know much of healing plants.” Húrin shook his head. “You were lucky.”

“Yes,” Bergil said. “And doubly so: I found the passage. It is unguarded and unblocked, at least from this side. I did not venture inside to check the other side.”

“Why not?” Aduiar asked. “It will do us little good if we are trapped inside.”

“No one has trod there in many years,” Bergil answered. “I did not want to disturb the dust, and it would take too long. Echil and Bádon can check from the other side with much less risk.”

“If they find it.” Aduiar looked at Bergil for a moment, then he turned to Golwen. “We can do nothing more here. Is there some way for you to let us know if our guess is correct?”

“I have quarters here at the Citadel and have been ordered to stay at hand throughout the celebrations. All who work here have. We will not be allowed outside except for official errands, but Damrod knows what to look for. I will let you know.”

“Good,” Húrin said. “We spoke to Damrod ere we came here. We will speak to him again later today, I think.”

“Then we should get back. Éomer king will be anxious to hear the news.”

“He really has come?” Golwen asked. “I did not quite believe it, even with the sign. Then I am hopeful.” He smiled and took out the purse he had hid. “This might be safer with you. I hope the Horse is as strong as the rumours tell.”

“I do not think we have seen his strength yet,” Aduiar said. He bowed to Golwen, and they left.

The walk back they spent in silence. Even Bergil had not seen so many people in the City, and the press of the crowd only grew. Húrin, tall as any Dúnedain, could not open a path with ease. The people of Gondor were Dúnedain too. It was Aduiar’s title that made the crowd part, but it left Húrin with a bitter taste in his mouth to call it out, just so that they could reach the house.

It was Ingold that greeted them at the door; Éomer had taken Aduiar’s advice and was sleeping.

They let him sleep. Borondir and Bragloth had not returned yet, and neither had Fastred; there was no need to disturb the king’s rest. Húrin sent Bergil to rest as well. He had seen the younger man rub his temples in a way he knew meant headache. He did not like that Bergil still was plagued with them. He should have recovered from the hit by now. Hopefully it just took longer because Bergil had not been given enough rest when the hurt was new.

Ingold took it on himself to prepare a meal for all of them and busied himself in the kitchen. Soon enough he was cutting and cleaning and cooking and boiling and baking. Húrin half-heartedly asked if he would have some help, but Ingold said no.

“I am not nice to work with when I cook,” he said. “It is better for us both that I do it alone. Then I don’t have to explain, then show, and then do everything myself anew when you fail to cut the vegetables to my liking. It would save me time and effort to just do it myself.”

Húrin was not about to argue himself into more work. He left the kitchen and found Aduiar sitting by one of the windows.

“Sometimes,” the mayor said, “I find myself missing my first home. One day I hope to return there, if only for a time. To see the sights that I now only remember as something from a dream. The sounds and smells. The taste of the food; none have ever managed to match the spices of the dishes there. Not even my mother could with the food grown here. Or maybe she did not want to. I was not yet seven when I learned not to ask. I was ten before I realised that it made her sad, and then I wished I had not asked even once.”

Húrin said nothing. He watched the mayor. There was little in his face or bearing that suggested that he was not a Man of Gondor, but he remembered Damrod’s outburst: _halfblood_. Aduiar had not flinched at the word, nor commented on it. At the time Húrin had not thought that he had cared, or even heard the other man. Perhaps he had been wrong.

Aduiar was staring out of the window.

“When I was twelve I understood that it was a lot more complicated than the simple ‘sad’ of my younger years.” He did not look at Húrin, but he did gesture for him to sit down with him. “The other children had begun to shun me. I came home one day with a black eye, but worse was the ache in my chest that I did not understand. _Periar_  they had called me, and I did not understand why.

“My mother said that I was old enough, and told me of my father. Of her own captivity, and of the man that had come to save her. Her, and all the other captives. I remembered my father only as a man with a dark beard that smiled at me, and laughed, and threw me into the air. I still remember the mixture of joy and fear, the exhilaration of flying and falling, and being safely caught.

“That day, when I was twelve years old, I stopped asking about my father. For a long time I hated him; I heard the hurt in my mother’s voice and I had become old enough to understand.” He paused and his eyes narrowed. “It was for her sake that I joined the Faithful, but I no longer hate my father.” He turned to meet Húrin’s eyes.

“I think he loved her, in his way. The only way he knew. He named me his heir, and took no other woman after her. That is what they have told me, that is why I will keep my name no matter what will happen.

“But for my mother’s sake, I honour the man that saved her, even thought he must be long dead.”

Húrin spoke, needing to have confirmed the nagging thought that had began to clamour in his mind. “Who was the man, the one that freed your mother?”

“Thorongil they called him. He was never seen in Gondor again.”

Aduiar had turned back to the window. Húrin did not say a word in answer to his statement, but the mayor must have sensed something, perhaps he heard his deep intake of air, for he turned back.

“He is known to you, this man.”

“Yes,” Húrin said. “He lives. He has been to Gondor since. You will see him tomorrow.”

“I see,” said Aduiar. He gave a smile, wan and sad, and turned back to the window. “My mother would be glad, my father not. And I carry both their blood.”

They did not speak again, but sat in silence as the hour passed and food was ready, and the king woke from his sleep, and all the others returned.

…

Mablung deemed it too dangerous for him to meet directly with Éomer king, so Damrod had been chosen to speak for the Faithful of the City. He had gone to speak with as many as he could, and the day was late when he at last returned to the house. Éomer had long been awake, and he had already spoken with the rest, but if he had made any plans, he had not told of them. He listened, but would neither accept nor reject the plans proposed.

“I would know what the Faithful say,” was his explanation. “They know the City better than any of us. And Damrod and Mablung were under lord Faramir’s command for many years. I would hear their thoughts on what he might be expected to do. He left the first letter to be found by Golwen; he might let something else slip that would help us. I am surprised that he has not already.”

“Lord Faramir does not know,” Bergil said.

“What do you mean? If anyone knows anything, it would be him,” Ingold said.

“I saw him, in the Citadel. I could not avoid them, but he did not know me; he just walked past. He was talking with the Prince and I overheard.”

“What did he say? And Imrahil, what of him? Do you think that he might have fallen?” Éomer had not had the chance to know Faramir as well as he had the Prince. For his sister’s sake, he would honour the Steward, but Imrahil he knew, had fought with side by side.

“I do not know. It sounded as if he did, but that does not mean much; they would not have spoken words of rebellion in the corridors.” Bergil tried to remember, what they had said, how they had sounded, but could not recall. “There were two guards with them.”

“Guarding them, or guarding them against danger?” Húrin asked.

“The first, I think. They were just following them. They did not pay any attention to me, while that other guard did.”

“Then we can learn little of their hearts from what they said.” Much as Éomer would like to know, he put the question aside. “We must plan for only such help as we know we can receive.”

Damrod could not tell them much more when he came, but he did report that all of the Faithful were willing to help in some way, should they need it.

“Some of the young men wish to fight,” he said, “but they have no training, unless you count such fistfights that young men get into. If needed, they will be willing to stage an attack on one of the prisons, or start an uprising in the lower levels. There are also many that will open their homes to hide you, should you need it, and Mistress Herdis has begun gathering supplies that you might need, both healing herbs and food. Such as each can spare.”

“That is good,” Éomer said. “Such help will be most welcome. Now, Bergil has found the tunnel he remembered, and its entrance in the Citadel is unguarded. Bádon and Echil are outside the walls and will seek to find the entrance there. They will, if they can find it, see if it is blocked or guarded from the outside.

“I understood that both you and Mablung thought lord Aragorn will be held in the new dungeon in the Citadel?”

“That, or the prison right beside it. The Citadel will be considered harder to break into, and so I hope that they will choose it. For us it will be easier to gain entrance there, and since the passage we will use to escape the City is inside, it will be best. We will have to trust to luck, and that our enemies do not find the passage we made. I will take it upon myself to find out before we attempt anything.”

“That is well,” Éomer said.

Because they could not know where the king Elessar would be held, they made more than one plan that night. If he were held in the Citadel, they would make their way inside using the passage Damrod had helped make. It would take them to the dungeons without passing through the rest of the Citadel, but they would not use the same to escape. Those of the Faithful that were willing would begin an uprising in the lower levels of the City, to draw as many guards as possible away from the Citadel. If possible, they would also stage an attack on one of the prisons to further throw the enemy off the scent. The company would use that distraction to escape through Bergil’s tunnel, if it proved to be open and unguarded. If it proved to be not, they would have to make new plans, but Éomer did not like Damrod’s suggestion that they hide in the City.

“They will not give up seeking until they are certain that he has either left the City, or they have found him. If we cannot find a way out, and one that we would be able to use the same night, or at the latest the night after, it might be better not to attempt any rescue,” he said.

“Lord!”

“Húrin,” Éomer said. “You know I do not wish to leave him, but consider: would it be better to rescue him, just for us all to be captured again soon after? If we do not have a way out of the City, then we _will_ be caught. Do you think he could bear that?”

“Do you think he would bear that none even tried?”

Éomer could not answer. All answers were wrong.

Damrod spoke: “There are places along the wall where it might be possible to lower a man down. If we can hold the soldiers long enough for you to take the King down to the first circle, you can escape over the wall. We will need a larger rebellion, and plan where the fighting would be, but it can be done. You can use the streets where there is no fighting, and escape that way.”

“If all else fails,” Éomer said, “that might be our best option. But if we are to try, knowing that we will fail, then it would be better to attack in daylight, for all to see. Then some may take heart from our example, and that will be all that our deaths will secure.”

“Our deaths, lord,” Húrin said, “but not yours. If it be hopeless, I will not have you go with me. Only those that cannot bear to go back and not have tried, _and_ have no other duties, should fight openly against the soldiers and the guards. I would rather go alone, but go I will. I cannot turn back now.

“But you, Lord of the Mark, have your people to serve, and you must not abandon them if defeat here is certain. That is a subject’s privilege, not a lord’s.”

“Then let us find a way where it is not.” Éomer would not despair before they had even begun. “Luck will be needed, but let us wait until we know for certain what road is open to us, before we choose the way of desperation. Bádon and Echil have used this day to search. If they have found what they seek, then we will decide on what plan to use.”

It was decided that if their luck held, and already the first night they would be able to attempt the rescue, they would do it. But only if their best plan would work. They would only change to a more desperate action if there was no time left.

And with that they parted. Damrod went to speak further with the Faithful, and because the sun had not yet left, Borondir went with him. Éomer wondered if they would be able to send a message to Bádon and Echil before it set.

“I will go, lord,” Bragloth said. “I should be able to reach them and get back before the Gates close. There are still some hours left of the day.”

“Go. And make sure you return in time.”

Bragloth nodded. Then he turned and left.

He managed to return just before the gates closed. Bádon and Echil were not to be found, but Bragloth guessed that they were still seeking the entrance of Bergil’s tunnel. If they had not found it yet, they might have decided to use the night to search.

“They know we have little time,” he said. “They know that we must find it quickly. They will be back to meet us by tomorrow.”

“Let us hope they have found it by then,” Éomer said.

“I do not like this plan,” Fastred said. “I know it is late, but would it not have been easier to waylay the escort in the road, where we would be free to escape? Or at least not be trapped behind these walls?”

Fastred was right. Knowing what they now did, Éomer would have planned differently. Or he might have.

“We all assumed that he would already be in the City,” Éomer said. “And we can do little about it now; we cannot leave tonight, and if we were to rescue him before he is taken into the City we would have had to do it tonight. Tomorrow will be too late, I fear. Had we had more time, I agree that it would have been simpler.”

“No, I do not think it would have been.”

Húrin stood by the window. Outside the sun had set and the twilight grown dark; soon the night would be upon them. Húrin was staring out on the fields below the City. The Pelennor should have been dark, but he could see hundreds of lights scattered across the fields, mirroring the lights that were lit above as if the field was not earth and grass, but a clear lake.

“A great army, or so it looks to be, has camped on the Pelennor,” he said. “I do not think it would be any easier to sneak into it and out again undetected. In the open we would easily be surrounded and overwhelmed by their numbers. In closer quarters they would be more hindered than we.”

Éomer joined him at the window. He wanted to see for himself, but the sight was not heartening.

“With an _éored_ , or even only a half, we might have done it,” he said. “But you are right, Húrin. Unless their numbers are smaller then their fires suggest, we would only get ourselves captured, I fear.”

He sighed and turned away from the sight. Fastred nodded in acceptance, and the rest said nothing, trusting in their experience and knowledge.

“We can do little more tonight,” Éomer said. “Let us all find our rest. Tomorrow will bring new counsel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Periar - (Sindarin) Half-blood


	18. The First Day of Celebrations

It is said that the Enemy could control the weather, but whether this was true or not, on the first day of celebrations the sun shone, and that suited the plans of the Master of Isengard well. He arrived at midday and met the company from Mordor on the fields of Pelennor, one mile from the gate.

Guards stood along the road all the way from the meeting-place and up to the highest level of the City, making sure that the way was cleared and that none would disrupt the procession. The delegates from the towns and villages were placed along the route, each to their assigned place according to rank and the standing among their peers.

Aduiar had been given a place close to the Citadel. Too far away to be a part of the dignitaries that surrounded lord Faramir, but close enough that he could see the Steward and witness the meeting there, mayhap even hear what they said. He was allowed two guards, and Éomer and Fastred stood behind him. There had been some discussion on who would have the second place, but Fastred would not let his king out of his sight, and Éomer overruled Húrin’s demands to be there.

“We need eyes all along the route,” he said. “And you will be able to see the lord Aragorn from the place allotted to the others. If you are not happy with it, you can always join Damrod at the first level. Or watch from outside the gates with Bádon and Echil.”

“There should be a Ranger at all points,” Húrin argued. “We have more experience in these matters.”

“Both Fastred and I are capable enough,” Éomer replied. “And Aduiar perhaps more than any.”

He was not sure if Húrin had bowed to his argument, or simply obeyed, but the Ranger had taken his place beside Ingold.

The procession mirrored the one ten years before, but this time more banners from the Dark Lord and his allies were displayed, and even richer was the finery they wore. The Master of Isengard had secured a steed from the Mark, one of the rare black ones. Éomer hurt to see it. Once a proud animal, now its gaits were exaggerated and unnatural. It was foaming at the mouth, fighting the bit and its neck was arched too much, its head curled almost to its breast. But worst than the sight, were the cheers from the lists as if at some feat of riding.

_The men of Gondor truly cannot know horses, if they will cheer this._ He dared not voice the thought, lest he be overheard. Perhaps they were only flatterers, praising not the riding, but gratifying the Lord of Isengard’s pride.

Before the Gates, the commoners that did not represent a village or a town had been allowed to gather so that they might catch a glimpse of the king. Among them Bádon and Echil had taken their place; though their role was to stay outside the City and secure a route of escape, they could not be kept from the chance to see their Chieftain at least once. Should their attempt fail, they would not get that chance again.

Though many were eager to see, few were as determined as they. They stood at the front, separated from the participants only by the guards lining the road.

They marked him well when he came.

He had been put on a cart, lifted up so that the people might see him more easily. He was standing, but it was hard to see whether he was standing on his own or not; he was bound to a pole in such a way that he could not do anything but stand. A crossing beam held his arms bound, and him standing.

Echil was too young to have known his Chieftain very well, but both he and Bádon could see that his hair was streaked with more grey than it had been, and his face was set in a stern mask they had rarely seen and his mouth… there was something about his mouth they could not remember from before. He kept his head bowed and if his eyes were open, they were just a small line. As if he was squinting against the sun, even though his eyes were shaded by the hair that hung down his face.

He was dressed in black. On his breast was embroidered the White Tree and the Seven Stars, but above them was no crown. Instead it showed the Eye.

They dared not call to him, lest the soldiers would hear. And so, they watched in silence as the cart rolled by.

They did not pay attention to the long line of banners and soldiers that followed; they had seen what they came for. In silence they waited until it ended and they could leave. They did not, like many others, follow the procession into the City, but turned and left, going back to the Grey Wood and their camp.

But the procession continued. Just inside the Gates, Damrod stood. He too, marked well the King. He saw that the face was drawn in pain, and tears were in the corners of the eyes. He was breathing through his mouth, and the lips seemed swollen or chapped. His eyes were closed, but he would turn his head this way or that as if listening to the murmur of the crowd.

The cart went on.

Up the levels it rolled, and, like it did ten years before, the murmur of the crowd followed it through the City, and the sound rose as it passed upwards. Then, on the fourth level, the sound stopped. There the representatives from the towns were placed along the route, the poorest or those with no power to their name first. More sparsely spread, one’s mumble could be heard and identified; they dared not even whisper. Not at first.

At the fifth level Húrin stood.

He saw his Chieftain raise his head and squint against the light. He saw a scar above his eye that had not been there ten years ago. He saw that he strove to breathe, strove to keep his face strong; saw him drop his head again. He saw what he had never thought he’d see.

He saw that he might break.

The procession moved on. Past Húrin, past Ingold and Borondir who stood before him. Ingold looking for the King he remembered, and seeing what he wished. Borondir seeing just the mockery the Enemy had devised. And Bragloth, who never told a living soul what thoughts came to him when he saw the King. He was quiet even after the cart drove past. Up, up the levels, slowly, it passed so that all could see and mark the King. The prisoner of Sauron.

At the last level, the cart lurched to a stop and Aragorn lifted his head. That was where Aduiar and Fastred saw him for the first time. And both recognized him, though they had never seen him before that day. Fastred knew then what he had suspected; here was the Man he had seen in his dream. Aduiar saw something else. He saw the King hidden in the magistrate’s mural, and in that in his own house. The features might have differed, but _he_ was the same.

And Éomer, Éomer saw a friend, rising from the grass. A friend, found on the battlefield after fighting through a host of foes, laughing at the predicted meeting that came to pass. A friend, lost in the dark wave of foes too numerous to beat, and now found again. And he vowed that his friend should be freed, whatever cost be paid.

He did not hear, paid no attention to, the words that were spoken by the Steward or that hated man, the Master of Isengard. He watched his friend strive to stand, to keep his head high, and even his wildest fears had not prepared him for the sight – such a small thing – of a lock of hair that had stuck to Aragorn’s face, close to his eye. It must have tickled, and he could not brush it away. His head fell down.

_Caught,_ Éomer thought. _Caught and bound. As if encased in stone._

Then it was over. Éomer did not heard Faramir’s words, too intent on watching Aragorn. The Lord of Isengard spoke, and at his words Aragorn lifted his head again. His eyes were thin slits against the light and there were some strange scars around his mouth. Éomer saw him catch Isengard’s eyes, and held them like he had done ten years before, and Éomer waited to see the other pale and avert his eyes. But the soldiers climbed up onto the cart and dragged Aragorn down, and broke the connection before either of them could.

And for once Éomer would wish to lie and say that he knew who would have looked away first. But horses do not lie, and neither do horselords.

…

“We have to get him out. Now!”

None wished to tell Húrin “no”, but Fastred had returned from his second meeting with Bádon and Echil, and he brought no good news, and Damrod had not returned to tell of the progress they had made on opening the last part of the passage into the Citadel. And they did not even know where the king Elessar was held.

“We could do little until evening, even if all were ready.” It was Aduiar who spoke up, the voice of reason, since no other would. “But there are some things we can do; I must show myself at the gathering of the officials. It is in one hour. Not only would it seem suspicious if I was not there, but I will learn more about the plans that have been made for the celebrations, and some information of value could be had from that. I can take one guard with me.”

“I will go,” Húrin said at once. “I… I cannot sit here and wait. I… “ He could not find the words to explain himself. He did not need to; still he tried, and failed, and trailed off.

“Can you keep calm?” Éomer asked, “He may be shown off once more, and I have not seen you this restless before.” _You look as restless as I feel. And longing for a fight._

Húrin nodded. The sounds of people in the streets below drifted in the window; life was going on and if they had not all seen and heard the crowd around them earlier, the sound would have been pleasant. Even gay. The clatter of feet, the noise and distant cry of voices, the hum reverberating through the City; all mixed with the sun and air to make the heart sing. Or weep the more.

“Good,” Éomer said. “Should Bergil go with us, too?”

“Yes,” Bergil said, but both Aduiar and Húrin said “No.”

“You should rest,” Húrin said. “You head still bothers you; I can tell.” And Aduiar explained that he could not bring both guard and servant. Now that Targon was dead, people would not believe that he had found one to fill his place so quickly; a guard would be more likely.

Ingold was left, once more, to play nursemaid for the youth. Borondir and Bragloth would see if they could aid Damrod and the Faithful, and the two Eorlingas sought solace where the horselords often did: with the horses. Furthermore, Éomer wished to speak with Bádon himself, and they needed to find a way to steal their horses away at night. Who better suited to plan that, than two horselords?

And so Bergil was sent, once more, off to rest, and Ingold began to prepare for the evening meal. He lit the fires and fetched all he needed, and then he went to check in on Bergil.

“He had scars around his mouth.”

Bergil sat on the bed. He had drawn his feet up close, hugging his knees. The bed was soft, the blankets warm and the small window in the room had been covered; still he could not sleep, and Ingold found him sitting there, curled into himself.

“He had scars around his mouth,” he said and shuddered. “I have not seen scars like that before. What would give such scars?”

Ingold sat down on the bed. “I do not know,” he said. He did not look at Bergil. “I do not know.”

“The Prince wore scars too. He had one going from his eye and down his jaw to his chin. Like this.” Bergil drew the line on his own face. “It must have hurt, but I could see what would have made it: some knife or sword or blade that cuts.

“I have not seen scars like _his_.”

Ingold moved a little on the bed. The sounds from outside were muted in the darkened room. Distanced, as if the world outside had been shut away. A dream, unreal and fleeting. Only this room was real, and they the only survivors.

“Do not think about it.” He remembered that once his father had spilled the hot soup boiling on the fire. It had spilled down his arm, and Ingold could still recall his father’s screams, and the smell of the boiling meat in the pot. Nauseating and thick. He could have been four. He never could abide the smell of boiling meat again.

His father’s arm had turned red, and weeping blisters had formed on it. After it was healed, he always wore his sleeves rolled down, no matter how hot it grew.

Ingold had once glimpsed his arm, years later. The skin had been full of lumps; uneven scars that covered his arm from elbow to wrist. That image had burned itself into his mind.

“Do not think of it,” he repeated. “Try to rest; if all goes well, we will all need to be rested this night.”

Bergil nodded, but he did not lie down. Ingold left him there, unsure of what to do. Instead he lost himself in the only thing left for him to do: cooking.

He took the meat, red and fresh. Its texture firm underneath his fingers, he held it fast so it would not slip. Blood oozed down on the cutting-board and the white fat bulged a little when he cut.

Long, narrow strips he cut, and laid them in a pan to fry. Then came what vegetables and greens that he could find. It was not much. Some nettles and the green blades of dandelions. Onions and roots had been easier to find, and beans and whole grains of corn: oats and barley for the most. No wheat. Flour of rye. He put it all to boil and simmer beside the meat. He would mix it later, when it all was done.

Then he went back to waiting.

Outside the sun slowly crawled across the sky, too heavy to move at her usual speed. Her rays were hot, baking the City in the stifling afternoon as if summer had come too fast, and skipped past spring.

Outside the walls two horses walked across the field. The riders had given them the reins and steered them with just gentle nudges. Their necks were stretched and loose, and their strides grew more even with each step.

Éomer had not taken the time to notice the changes that had been wrought on the Pelennor before. Some grass grew there, but it was yellow and stiff, except for one mound where the new grass grew thick and green. He smiled a little in remembrance and bowed his head slightly when he passed. Fastred did the same, and did not ask what mound it was.

They rode in silence for a little while more, and then picked up the reins; they needed to ride faster if they were to reach the rangers and back, and still have time to discuss their plans.

When Éomer asked for trot, Firefoot bucked. A firmer nudge did not resolve the matter; the horse only pushed back against the aid and lashed out with a foot. Luckily Fastred rode on the other side.

“Stop that, you stupid fool,” Éomer scolded. “What nonsense is this?”

“Perhaps he has only grown stiff, my lord,” Fastred suggested. “He has been idle for a day, and the enclosure is small. He is growing old.”

Éomer did not answer that, and the look he threw Fastred made the other man shut his mouth. He had enough to worry about without his horse making trouble, and certainly not to have his subject offering advice. But he did put more weight in the stirrups and lightened his seat, and Firefoot snorted and began to trot. It was not as smooth and even as his gait usually was, but he did not buck. Éomer asked him to step more lively and let the horse stretch his neck and back until Firefoot snorted again, and he could feel him loosen.

Fastred said nothing.

The king had planned to canter, but he let the horse work in trot a while. Firefoot needed it – that much was clear – and their pace was not that much slower than it would have been. Up in front the broken wall appeared. Grown with moss, in places pulled down and dragged away to serve for rebuilding houses or to make new, it did not fit the memory of ten years past. Éomer did not realise how far they had come when Fastred called and urged him to a walk lest Firefoot hurt himself stumbling on the rubble hidden beneath the yellow grass.

Crumbled block and broken chips of stone littered the ground. The once sharp edges were dulled by the passage of time, of wind and weather smoothing the stone, wearing it down. Shrubs and bushes grew in scattered lumps along the wall, pushing more of it down each year. Éomer knew that it could prove lucky for them, but he could still see before his eyes the Enemy’s men dragging Aragorn across the ground and into the darkness of the Citadel tunnel. Some of that looked as if it had been rebuilt, perhaps with the stones that were missing here.

“There are more shrubs and small trees than I remember,” Éomer said. “I wonder why the Enemy would allow it.”

“It is strange, sire.”

“Perhaps he wishes to make it harder to move soldiers against the City; a forest would have made our charge much harder.”

“Perhaps, sire.”

“Or maybe he simply does not care.” Éomer watched Fastred out of the corner of his eye. The man’s face was carefully blank, and he looked straight ahead.

“That might be, my lord.”

“He might simply like trees.”

“Yes, lord.”

Éomer could take no more. He could not understand the why of Fastred’s behaviour, but he was neither blind nor deaf; the man was humouring him, and would agree on anything his king said. That usually meant that Fastred had some misgiving that he did not think he could voice.

“Fastred.” Éomer sighed. “What have I said about those ‘sire’s?”

“I am sorry, my lord.”

Fastred did not say anything more. They had passed the rubble of the wall and now he took his mare into a canter, forcing Éomer to follow his lead or be left behind.

Éomer followed.

He soon became absorbed in the rhythm of the ride and in the feel of the movement of the horse. He noticed that every time he asked for more, the right hind-leg dragged a little behind. In response he touched Firefoot with the spur to wake it up and urge him on. He promptly answered with a kick that threw Éomer a little off his balance.

Éomer kicked back.

Firefoot curled his neck and laid his ears flat against his head. He did not kick again, but began to run instead, trying to escape the demand that way. Éomer let him, and instead of slowing urged him on, asking for more, asking the hindquarters to engage and carry more of the weight, and giving him a little more rein so he could stretch his neck and back.

In the end the horse snorted once, twice; many times, and its strides grew long and easy, and its back flowed soft and strong.

They had long since caught up with Fastred and his mare, and when the king slowed his pace, Fastred did the same.

“Are you ready to speak now?” Éomer asked.

“No,” came the reply. “It was you who were in need, not I.”

Éomer might have laughed. The image of his friend was still too fresh before his eyes, but his anger had been blunted by the ride.

“You know me better than I thought.”

Fastred shrugged. “Some things need no knowledge to be guessed,” he said.  “I saw what you saw, yet I know you did not see the same as I. He was your friend.”

“Is,” Éomer said. “He is not dead.”

“You did not know him long, and it has been ten years.”

“Do you wish to wake my anger again?” Éomer warned. His voice was low and carried danger should any dare to speak against him.

“No, my lord.” Fastred paused and turned away. They neared the place where he met with Bádon and Echil, but there was no sign of the two rangers. He turned back to his king. What he saw made him speak.

“I saw the man from my dream today. I did not think that my dream would look so alike to him, and I have some inkling, now, of the wish that burns in you and Húrin: to help set him free. To keep him safe, even at the cost of many lives. And not just your own.

“To me he is a stranger whose rescue will endanger my king, and still I, too, wish him safe after what I saw today.” He paused.

“Tomorrow will be worse.”

“Tomorrow we may be long gone,” Éomer objected.

“We do not know that, and it does not seem likely.”

“We do not know.” Éomer shook his head. “Do not speak of it again until we know.”

“Is that an order, lord?”

“It is a request,” Éomer said.

And so they rode in silence the last leg of the way. The clearing was empty when they came there, but soon the horses could sense the presence of others, and shortly the two rangers came into sight. They had news to tell of their search.

“We have searched, as much as we have dared by day, the mountainside inside the Rammas Echor,” Bádon explained. “We have not dared to search where we could be seen. But even if we had not feared detection, we would have searched the same; I do not think an escape-tunnel would end where the refugees can be seen from the City. I fear we might not find the entrance in time, if it is even there anymore. The days are short, and the hour late.” He paused as if to weight his words.

“Lord,” he continued, “is there no other way out of the City? The captain told us that even if we did not find this tunnel, you still have a plan. The sooner we can act, the less the chance that we are caught, or betrayed, before any plan can be acted on. If we move tonight…”

“Bergil found the entrance,” Éomer said. “To escape through the streets of the City to the outer walls is too difficult to risk unless there are no other ways. Minas Tirith might have been built to keep attackers away, but it is equally hard to escape from inside. Unless through a secret passage. Too many lives would needlessly be lost, and we might easily fail. We are not yet desperate.”

“Lord,” Bádon said. “Did you see the Chieftain?”

“I did.” Éomer’s face grew stern at Bádon’s words, a warning for any who could read it.

The ranger ignored it.

“Did you see his face?” Bádon did not wait for any answer. “How can we leave him in their hands even one more day?”

_We cannot,_ Éomer thought, but he answered: “It looks as if we must. We need that tunnel.”

Bádon said nothing for a while; his heart was too sore. Fastred moved his horse a little closer to Éomer’s.

A bird began to sing somewhere close by, a high shrill cluster of notes that drifted across the clearing. Carried by a gentle wind it spread around them. A horse stamped its hoof once, and those were all the sounds that could be heard.

And Bádon fought the red darkness of his blood. Stone-still he sat, only his horse could feel the tremors of the raging blood within. He tried to breathe calmly, but it came in short, shallow pants – the only outward sign of his battle. His horse stood motionless, sensing something of its rider’s mood.

At length he lifted his head again and sought king Éomer’s gaze.

“I cannot find it,” he said. “The tunnel. I cannot find it, and I do not know if I ever will. Not unless we are shown the place.

“Lord king, I… we…  In ten years we have not spoken his name, have tried to banish him from our minds because the mere thought is too much to bear. To see him thus today…

“I cannot bear the thought that he should spend even one more day in their hands. And you say we cannot act until we find the tunnel, the tunnel that I cannot find?” His voice broke, tears were in his eyes, but he did not let them fall, and did not turn away.

“I told Fastred much the same,” Éomer said. His smile was pained. “He is my friend. He came to my aid, and I will always ride to his when I can.

“But I am king and leader as well. What is one day after ten years’ wait? One day might give us time to succeed.”

But for all their passion, for all their fears, they could not truly know how long that one day would prove. And Éomer would regret his words.

…

It was late. The sun would continue to shine for two hours more or longer, but even if all went well, time was short. Húrin hurried down the last part to the Gates, hoping that Éomer and Fastred had not yet returned. That would be easier.

There! He turned the last corner and the Gate came into sight. Luck was with him; the gate was more or less abandoned. Only the guards stood there, but he guessed the scribes were just out of sight. Why should they wait outside, bored and tired, if they could be indoors amusing themselves and leave the tiresome watch to simple soldiers? If he were really lucky, the guards would not call the scribes at all.

His luck did not hold that far.

“What is your purpose outside the Gates this late?”

“I was sent by my lord to retrieve the men he had already sent to see to the horses,” Húrin answered. The guard held his gaze and Húrin let him. He had told no lie. “If you consult your records, I am sure that you will find that they have not re-entered the City yet. The lord mayor of Calembel thought they would have returned by now and sent me to call them back.”

The guard did not turn, but called for one of the scribes to come. Húrin was able to convince them that he should be let out, but not to return the knife Aduiar had gotten permission for him to bear. It might have been too much to hope for, but Húrin wished he had it all the same. He felt bare without any kind of weapon at all.

Bereth was slow. He would not run as smoothly as he usually did, and Húrin was close to losing his temper with the horse. He did not need to be slowed down. After a while the gelding seemed to settle, though, and they could cover more ground.

He found them still together, and debating. Quite heated, or at least Bádon was. Éomer, Húrin noticed, had grown very quiet. He was barely able to hear the last few words he spoke.

“… time to succeed?” the king asked.

Bádon would have answered, but he saw his captain coming and greeted him instead. Húrin returned the greeting.

“What has happened?” Éomer asked. He did not wait for pleasantries. “Why are you here?”

“I have received news,” Húrin answered. “We deemed it best that I would go at once.”

Éomer said nothing, he just waved him on, impatient to know what would have brought him here this late. They would have to leave soon if they were to reach the City before the Gates closed, and could not dally on the way.

“Have you found the entrance?” Húrin asked.

“No.” Bádon’s answer was short.

“Then my news will be welcome,” Húrin said. “Golwen, the scribe, found me while I waited in the Citadel. He gave me this,” he held out a map. “He said he got it from Faramir’s own chambers and it shows the place where a secret tunnel ends.”

“The same?” Fastred asked.

“I doubt there will be more than one,” Húrin replied. “It would take time to just make one; why waste the effort on one more?”

“There is only one way to find out,” Éomer said. “Bádon, Echil. Find where the tunnel ends; with the map you should be able even in the dark. Follow it as far as you safely can. We will meet in the morning to hear your report, and if luck is with us, all will be ready tomorrow night.”

Bádon bowed. “With this, there might be a chance,” he said. “And you would be right to wait. I only hope the Chieftain will not suffer for it.” He paused.

“We will go at once,” he continued. “It will be easier to find the entrance while there still is light.”

Éomer nodded. “Fare safe.”

The king turned and rode back towards the City. Fastred followed him, but Húrin lingered a moment longer. He watched Bádon, as if waiting for him to offer some explanation, but when neither of the rangers spoke, he only said:

“Remember my words: he would no sooner abandon him than I.”

Then Húrin turned as well and sped after the Eorlings.

Bádon took a moment to study the map. Echil said nothing. He had stayed silent the whole time and he did not speak until Bádon had put away the map and they had turned their horses back to where they came from.

“Do you think we will find it?”

“Nothing is certain,” Bádon answered. “But with this I am hopeful.”

Their horses were tired, but, as horses will if their riders’ need is great, they did not slow. The men had perhaps half an hour, or less, before sunset when they reached the mountain for the second time that day. Bádon wished the light would linger as it did in the North, but he knew that the twilight was much shorter in the South. Perhaps it was the closeness to the Shadow that made even the light flee?

“It is not here.”

Echil’s words tore him out of his musings.

”What?”

“We have been here before,” Echil said. He pointed to an outcrop on the mountainside, easy to spot. And recognise.

Halfway up the mountainside it hung, jutting out like a half-born troll pressing its way out of its mountain mother and caught between birth and life in the daylight. Trapped in stone before it even had begun to live. One side of its face exposed and eroded, with one hollow eye staring blindly at the light. Its mouth a gaping shadow underneath its nose. Moss for hair and on the pointed chin a small tree grew.

“We have searched here,” Echil said. “And found nothing.”

Bádon’s heart sank. He brought out the map again. He looked at it. He looked around. The rays of the sun fell across the mountain, and the angle made each furrow dark and deep. And he saw it. What they had missed in the height of the midday sun; there, in twisting turns a path wove its way up from the foot of the mountain to the outcrop above.

He gave a shout of joy and spurred his horse towards the path. _Quick, before the light fades._ He had no time to explain, no time to wait. Echil called behind him, but he did not heed the youth, and so the other had no choice but to follow.

The path was there, hidden in the bushes growing on the slopes. Too steep for the horses to climb. They left them there to graze and rest, trusting that they would not stray too far, and began their trek up the path.

It was broader than it had seemed from below, but skilfully hidden. Two men could walk abreast, but despite the winding steps the path was steep. Up, up they went, towards the troll’s head. The outcrop glared at them, coloured red by the last rays of the dying sun.

They reached the jutting rock of the troll’s chin. Behind them the sun sank and light fled. In the lingering twilight they could make out the darkness of a cave. Hidden behind the tree, no longer small, a dark opening beckoned. Far smaller than the shadowed mouth gave away, it was so low that they had to bend their heads to enter.

Inside they straightened. The cave opened up, its size invisible before they could make a light, but felt by the moist cold on their skin, by the small hairs rising on their necks. It could be heard in the echoes of dripping water and the shuffle of their feet. Bádon struck a light.

Dark stone in jagged shapes met their eyes. The roof above was filled with broken teeth as if it really was the mouth of a troll turned to stone. It stretched into the mountain, beyond the reach of the light, but a path, clearly made by Men, lay as a smooth tongue between the jagged teeth of the floor. They followed it into the darkness.

Blackness parted before them, chased away by their single torch; the others they held in reserve lest the passage should prove too long and they would have to find their way in the dark. Their feet made no sound, but the torch would crackle and hiss, and the sound would magnify and echo and re-echo in the vast space.

At length – or so it seemed to them, thought they could hardly have walked half a mile, if even that long – they reached the end of the cave. There they found a tunnel leading further into the mountain. Two men might squeeze their way through at a time, but only barely so. Bádon led, and Echil followed, and in that way they walked for a long time, even though the tunnel widened soon.

Step by step they found their way. The tunnel shifted and changed as if those that built it had followed the natural fissures where they could, and only mined their way if the cracks ventured too far from their course. There was little else to say of it; no Dwarven hall was this, or even orc-made lair. The builders seemed to have but one goal: to make a way through the mountain.

They walked for so long, that when they reached the end they had stopped looking.

There, in front of them, stood a wooden door. The wood was grey in the torch-light, old and dusty. Great hinges fastened it into the living rock and at the side they could see a beam standing by the wall: a bar to block the door for pursuers.

“It will be locked from the other side,” Echil said. “They would not leave a door open with which an enemy could enter from outside. Or at the very least be guarded.”

“Bergil found it unguarded,” Bádon replied. “But there is only one way to know.” He put out the torch. “Go hide further down the tunnel, around the corner if you can. I will try the door. At any sign of trouble, you make no sound and get out.”

“And leave you to be captured?” Echil shook his head. “I will not.”

“You will,” Bádon said. “Because I order it, and because you know that one of us must be able to report back. And you are lighter on your feet than I; you have the better chance to escape pursuit.”

Echil knew that it was the truth, and did as ordered.

The door had no cracks through which Bádon could look out. The aged wood was strong beneath his hands when he gently pushed against it to check whether it was indeed locked from outside.

To his surprise it moved.

Just an inch it moved, but move it did. He waited for a moment, for two, three, four, and the moment stretched and nothing else happened. And so he pushed against it again.

Slowly it swung on rusted hinges, heavy under his hands, his arms, his shoulders. He pushed until it stopped, and would open no further.

Dark leaves obscured the night-sky, hanging like a curtain from the mountainside, covering the entrance. Beyond he saw tall houses and an empty street, and Minas Tirith sleeping underneath the waning moon. Only from the distant barracks beside the White Tower could be heard the voices of men, raised in song, the tunes and tongue strange to Bádon’s ear; the Haradrim rejoiced.

“We found it.”


	19. Drums

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: see endnotes (might spoil)

The sunrise was beautiful. More beautiful than any Éomer had seen. The sun escaped out of the East, full of light and warmth, untouched by night and shadow. Clear, as if her light had never been tainted but still retained the unsullied light of the Trees. She brought the singing of birds, and the promise of a hot day.

The king did not know whether the sunrise boded well or not. The day would be long. Their plans were almost ready, and soon they would have little to do but wait for the evening. But not yet. Still there were tasks that needed be done, and choices to make, some of which Éomer hoped he would never have to make.

All had risen before the sun; there was much to do before the Gates of the City closed at noon.

Éomer had insisted on meeting the two Rangers alone. Their plan would work better that way, and Éomer wished to see to the horses before they were locked in. If nothing else, it would calm his mind.

Echil waited outside the Gates. He pretended to be one of the many onlookers that had gathered there, of them there were many. Curiosity drew them. Or they wanted to gain some influence by showing themselves. Some only wanted to get a glimpse of the King that they had heard of, but never seen. And among the crowd, of course, were the merchants, trying to sell whatever they could. It was easy enough for the ranger to blend in.

_We should have thought of having some people in the crowd outside_ , Éomer thought. _A riot outside would help draw the guards away if we need to get over the walls._

That could not be done now, but perhaps Mablung would know how to achieve it. Éomer caught Echil’s eye, but walked past him towards the stables with no other sign. Echil found him there a little later, grooming the mayor’s mare.

“We found it,” he told the king. His voice was low. “No problems, no guards; we followed it to the end.”

Echil’s words were horns calling to battle. His news like Éomer’s first glimpse of the banner of the Stars and the Tree, so many years ago. Like hearing his sister speak, when he had thought her dead.

“Bádon?” Éomer asked.

“He stayed. Gathering torch-wood; it is very dark and you will need light along the way.”

“Good.” Éomer nodded. “Fastred will join you soon; he can explain our plans further.”

Echil slipped out of the stable, and Éomer finished the grooming. The mare took her stabling well enough, but she was more restless than he was used to. Or perhaps – he had to admit to himself – she was only picking up on his own tension.  He tried to use long, unhurried stokes with the brush, but he could not find his rhythm.

“It is not as if you need grooming to keep clean,” he muttered to her. “You are one of those horses that would never roll in anything but the cleanest straw, aren’t you?”

She turned her head to give him a look. One of those mares; he knew the type.

“Your master spoils you, you know,” he told her. She nuzzled his hand and he shook his head at her.

“I used to snort whenever someone, usually a silly girl, would go on and on about how soft the muzzle of a horse was,” he said. “I never thought they were particularly soft; not when digging for treats like this. Yours though…” This mare’s muzzle really was like silk and feather downs. But it did not make him give up any treats. He finished brushing her down and when he left her box she promptly turned her back to him. Éomer laughed.

“You are a beauty,” he said. “But you need more than beauty and attitude to win me over, little princess. Though I cannot say the same for my horse,” he added in a lower voice. The mare snorted, and Éomer left.

He took the time to look over the other horses, they needed to be fit this night, but he found nothing he needed worry about. _Good_. That was one worry less; their plans were coming together. One more thing before the Gates closed and then only the wait would be left.

This day, too, there was a throng at the Gates, but the guards did not admit any that could not prove that they had lodging within the City. Éomer was swiftly shown past the line when he showed his mark. He was asked for weapons, and about his errand outside, but the guards were not thorough; they did not search him or in other ways seek to confirm his story. Perhaps it was because he was listed as Aduiar’s guard, but whatever the reason, Éomer was annoyed. They could use some weapons, and here he would have been able to bring at least a knife.

Not that the risk was worth taking.

Fastred and Aduiar were waiting for him at the Old Guesthouse. He gave them a short nod. _They found it; proceed_. The mayor nodded back, and Éomer walked on, up the levels of the City. Fastred gave no protest, he only inched his head, but he did not meet Éomer’s eyes.

All misgivings had been spoken the night before.

Fastred would not go so far as to say that it had been his idea, but if he had not told his king of the offer the stable-master had given him, the plan would never have been hatched. Getting the horses from the enclosure would not be too difficult for the two Rangers, but Aduiar’s mare would then have to be left behind. And they needed all the horses; at least one would have to carry two, until they met up with those sent from Fangorn. Provided that Cearl had reached Wellinghall in time. If not, then they would have to share horses all the way back to Fangorn. They would need as many horses to share the load as they could, or any pursuers would surely overtake them.

“Breaking into the stables will attract too much attention,” Húrin had said. “Unless we know of someone on the outside that could cause a diversion there, my men will not be able to retrieve the mare.”

“Or someone on the inside,” Éomer had added. “Did you not tell me, Fastred, that the owner had offered you a position?”

“It is true, but…”

“Then you should accept; that would give us the man on the inside that we need, and I would be happier knowing that you will be there to help handle the horses. We might even be able to take most of the tack with us as well that way; that would be most helpful if we at any point would be forced to fight.”

“Sire, I will not leave you.”

“Even against my orders?” Éomer’s voice had been hard.

“If anything should happen to you while I was gone, your sister will not forgive me.”

That argument had not swayed the king. And in the end, neither had Fastred’s concern that he would be arrested if he did not return for the closing of the Gate.

“I might be able to help with that,” Aduiar had offered, shattering the only objection that had carried any weight with the king. “If I declared to the guards and scribes that Fastred intended to leave my service, I think I could get him thrown out of the City, with no further repercussions.”

And so it was that Fastred found himself walking behind Aduiar towards the Gate, cursing his fate. He knew Éomer king was right; there were none else to do this, but he could not rid himself of the feeling that something would go wrong. And he would not be there to protect his king.

“The Gate will close in just a few hours, lord mayor.” The scribe’s voice broke into Fastred’s thoughts; he had not noticed that they had reached the Gate.

“I know,” Aduiar replied.

“One of your men just came back; surely there will be no need to send someone for him,” the scribe continued. “And what errand have you forgotten that could be so pressing as to send a new man on it now?”

“No errand,” Aduiar said. “I would have liked to have one of my men guard the horses, I hear horse-thieves are drawn to the large number of horses kept outside the City.” He gave a pause, then drew his breath as if he were to continue, but the scribe held up his hand to stop any further speech.

“I am sorry, lord mayor,” the scribe said. “But that is quite impossible. But I assure you that your horses are most safe; there have been no horse-thieves since the Great Lord blessed us with his protection.”

“Of course,” Aduiar replied. “It was not my errand. I came to ask that this man be driven out of the City before the Gate is closed today. He choose this day, of all days, to tell me that he intended to leave my service, and I have no use for men that do not serve me.”

The scribe turned to Fastred. “You have left his service now?”

“No, master scribe,” Fastred replied. “I merely spoke with the lord mayor asking that I might leave his service after the celebrations. Master Rodhaer intends to stay in the lord mayor’s service and not go back to his hunting, but a life as a guard does not suit me, and the owner of the stable offered me a position. I therefore asked the lord mayor that I might be allowed to accept that offer after the celebrations were over.”

“I have no use for one I know will leave me soon; prudence commands that I can not trust such a man. I therefore wish him to end his service to me now. Since he is here purely in the capacity of one of my guards, I did not think he should be given leave to stay. Not when so many that are more deserving wait outside the walls.”

The scribe surveyed Fastred, who had adopted the same stance that Éomer was so annoyed with when he used it in his presence.

“Wait here.”

He disappeared into the guardhouse they had been taken into when they arrived.

“What now,” Fastred whispered to the mayor.

“We wait,” Aduiar replied. He, too, kept his voice low, if not in a whisper. “Hopefully I have given the impression that you should not be trusted to remain in the City, without making him so suspicious that he deems it more prudent to arrest you.”

“Arrest me? What…”

“Quiet, he returns.”

And he had the main clerk and several guards with him. Fastred stiffened, not sure whether it would be better to fight or not.

“Lord mayor,” the main clerk said. Fastred recognized the man they had spoken to when they first entered the City, only two days before. “I hear that there is a problem regarding one of your men?”

“I would not go that far,” Aduiar replied, “but this man here has stated his intention to leave my employment early, and I do not like to feed men that plan to leave. I would prefer that he be made to leave the City; let the man whom he wishes to serve take responsibility for him.”

The clerk turned to Fastred. “Which man is the lord mayor talking about?”

“The stable-master offered me a job,” Fastred replied. “I have already explained this.”

“Why?”

“I am good with horses.” Fastred shrugged.

“And are you happy to let him leave your service, lord mayor?” the scribe asked.

“It is my opinion that it is better to have loyal servants, and I will not trust a man to guard me that I know wishes to work for someone else,” Aduiar replied. “He has served me well enough so far; let him be on his way to his new master.”

“Very well,” the scribe answered. He turned to Fastred. “A guard will accompany you to the stable to confirm your story. If the stable-master verifies it, you will have to report here at midday every day for one week. If you fail to present yourself on time, you will be arrested. If you seek to flee, you will be hunted down and arrested. Guards will be sent to the stable to check your whereabouts at our leisure. If you are not there, you will be arrested as soon as you are found. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Fastred answered. “I step out of line, I get arrested. I understand.”

“Good,” the scribe said. “If the lord mayor here wishes, you will be arrested and detained for ten days for leaving his service early.” Aduiar shook his head.

“If the stable-master denies your story, you will be taken back here and put under arrest.  You will receive ten strokes with the stick and held for a fortnight. If you fail any of the other conditions, you will receive ten strokes with the whip and be held for twenty days. The punishment may be increased with the difficulty with which it will take to apprehend you. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

The scribe nodded to the guards, and they took Fastred through the Gate, one leading the way, the other following to keep an eye on him. Fastred did not look back.

“Thank you for your help,” Aduiar told the scribe. He pressed a few coins into his hand. “I am most grateful that this small problem has been solved so amenably. Please let me know if there are any further problems.”

“I assure you, lord mayor, that you will not need to trouble yourself with this man again, whatever the outcome,” the scribe said. “I will make certain of it.”

“I have no doubts,” Aduiar replied, “but I would like to know if he lied to me. I do not like men that lie to me, and I make it a point to demonstrate my displeasure; I find that this discourages others from doing the same.”

“A wise rule to observe, Lord Mayor.” The scribe bowed. His right hand was stretched out a little more than his left, palm up. It was empty.

Aduiar slipped a few more coins into it. “See that I am informed as soon as possible if there are any problems.”

“Of course.”

…

If the White City had been a herd of horses, Éomer would have begun to look for the bear. He could taste the tension, see the raised heads, the wide nostrils; the bodies posed to flight. But there was no need to seek for prowlers.

The prowler was already inside the walls.

No bear though. This enemy was too sly to be a bear, too cruel. This enemy was a pack of wolves, ready to tear the herd apart, giving no warning.

“Is there any news on what they have planned for today?”

Ingold shook his head. Even the rumours of the inns and pubs – and Ingold knew how to hear them all – had given few clues. No details to be gleaned, only dark fear that the Master of Isengard could mean no good.

“The few rumours there are, are conflicting, and lack details. The more exaggerating say that all that refuse to attend will be gathered and flayed alive, and that those who do obey their orders will only attain a slightly less painful death. Others say that the King Elessar will bend knee and swear allegiance to the Enemy. Neither, I think, is true.”

“I do not know which would be worse,” Húrin said. He was sitting at the table with a crude map of the City before him. They had drawn it the night before and now it provided him with a reason not to look at anyone.

“Do you think either is even possible?” Ingold asked.

“I would put nothing past the Enemy,” Húrin answered, and Éomer could only agree to that.

“The Enemy, yes,” he said, “but… I agree with Ingold; neither is very probable.”

“The first rumour I agree on; it is not probable, if only because the Enemy could have slaughtered the whole of Gondor by now if he had wanted. The second… I do not wish to think about.”

“Aragorn would not bow down to the Enemy. He would rather die.” If it was one thing Éomer knew, it was this. As surely as he knew himself, he knew this.

“So I thought too,” Húrin said. “Until yesterday.”

“Do not.”

Húrin did not answer. He continued to study the map, as if it could hold any answers.

“Continue,” Éomer told Ingold. “Have you heard anything that could be more helpful?”

“More helpful, no,” the innkeeper answered. “More true? Perhaps.

“In the Old Guesthouse I overheard two guards talking to a third man. They hinted that today would be a day of ‘retribution for the sins of Gondor’, and that what rebels that did remain would be ‘shunned in Gondor hereafter’.”

“I do not like the sound of that,” Éomer said.

“Nor do I. I guess some kind of demonstration throughout Minas Tirith, since we again have been called to report at different places in the City. Possibly involving the King.”

“I would be surprised if it did not. Aragorn was brought here for a reason, and the Master of Isengard revels in the humiliation of his vanquished foes. We saw it all to well in Edoras, and at Erkenbrand’s surrender.” Éomer turned his eyes from the room, out the window. The image in his mind was muted by the years and the hardship that had followed, but still he wished that he had never seen the corpse.

“What did he do?” Ingold asked.

“He hung Erkenbrand from the walls for the crows of Isengard to feed on.” Ingold winced at Éomer’s tone. The king turned back to meet his eyes.

“He was still alive.”

The room fell quiet after that, and they stayed quiet until Borondir and Bragloth retuned. Aduiar came back right after.

“Fastred was not arrested, not at the Gate anyway,” Aduiar told them. “I think all will be well, and the scribe was bribed well enough that he will alert me if the stable-master goes back on his word.”

“Damrod’s passage is ready too,” Borondir could tell. “They braved the curfew last night to finish it.”

“And Echil confirmed that they have found the tunnel; it is neither guarded nor blocked. Perhaps Faramir indeed has been able to keep it secret all these years.” Éomer put aside his worry; it would do no more good now. “All we need is confirmation from Golwen that the Lord Aragorn is kept in the dungeons, and all we have left is to wait for nightfall.”

“No,” Aduiar said. “First we must get to our places; today’s celebration will begin soon enough, and we all have different places to be.”

“Then we will go; you all know where to.”

Húrin stood and sought Éomer’s eyes. He did not need to speak – they had spoken before – but Húrin’s whole being asked, one last time, to trade places with the king. Éomer shook his head. _No_. Húrin bowed and left, the others trailing after him.

“He is right, Éomer king,” Aduiar said. “You know that. Among the nobles there is a greater chance that you will be recognised.”

“I shaved again this morning,” Éomer answered. “And re-dyed both my hair and eyebrows. My sister-son would not recognise me in a crowd, let alone people that have not seen me in ten years. And I know how to keep my head down; I will be safe enough.

“And Fastred need never know,” he added under his breath.

Aduiar heard it nevertheless. “I would not have guessed that the king would fear a loyal subject.”

Éomer heard the laughter in his voice. “Fastred has worries enough,” he said. “I do not fear what he might have to say, but I do not wish to needlessly give him more to worry for.”

“And he might tell your sister.”

“ _I_ will tell my sister,” Éomer answered. “Once we all are safely back in Fangorn.”

“As you wish, lord. As you wish.”

…

At noon a silence fell over the City.

From the closed Gate a runner was sent up through the circles, up to the Citadel. At each gate the guards raised their spears and hit the ground in time, giving one, wordless shout. The runner stopped, and the captain of that gate would call:

“All have gathered!”

And the runner continued up to the next level.

His run ended at the prison at the sixth level, right outside the entrance to the Citadel. There the runner stopped and called out:

“The City is gathered! All is ready!”

In answer a trumpet sounded. Its call carried in the silences, all the way down to the fields beyond the walls. There the Orc-camp that held the king Elessar’s escort rose and moved towards the Gate, at last allowed close to the City. From among the company of orcs, a shadow rose into the air; a great beast, the like of which had not been seen in ten years. Sharp and piercing was the cry that rose with it and all that heard it shuddered. Now the mood that had hung over the City took shape and name; a Nazgûl had come!

Throughout that day, it circled the City, and those that had been there ten years before remembered too well the dread of that first siege.

But as the Winged Beast took to the sky, a new procession began. Out from the tunnel to the Citadel, Haradirm soldiers came. Four rode on black horses, and behind them came the Prince of Dol Amroth astride a great charger; a grey so light that its coat shone white, but its hooves and eyes were dark, and dark were the flared nostrils as it pranced and danced underneath the Prince. Dark, too, were the Prince’s eyes, and his face stern. He did not wear the blue of Dol Amroth, but black and white were his clothes and his head was bare. No emblem did he show, but two standard-bearers followed him. One with the Eye and one with the Tree.

Behind the prince came soldiers on foot, a whole company of Corsairs and Easterlings mixed. When they passed between the prison and the stables, the company parted to give room for the great, ox-drawn cart that slowly lumbered into sight.

Two poles, sturdy and strong, were nailed to each side. They stood upright, taller than a man, and on their forked ends rested a beam of hard oak, thick and strong. Heavy ropes bound their prisoner to the beam. The King Elessar stood stretched out beneath it; his feet set wide to keep his footing on the cart.

He wore soft, long boots, finely made and new, as were his clothes. But he wore no jacket, only a white linen-shirt, thin and finely woven. It was long, hanging loosely almost to his knee and the cuffs and neckline fastened snug against him, showing nothing of the skin. Loose was his hair and clean-shaven his face, leaving it naked and bare. His eyes dark shadows under a pale forehead, he squinted against the light of day and said nothing.

In silence the cart moved down the circles of the City, the soldiers pressed thick around it so that none could draw near the King.

None spoke in the crowd. They watched in silence, not knowing what the day would bring, hoping that this was nothing more than another display. A demonstration that the hostage still lived, nothing more; nothing more than showing them their beaten King. Above the Nazgûl screamed, just as the cart passed under the gate between the fourth and fifth circle, and Borondir, standing at that gate, saw the King shudder at the sound, faltering a moment before he found his footing again.

Down, down, down the cart rolled slowly through the streets. Above the sun shone, heating the City of stone, blinding in her brightness so that it was as if she cast a shadow of searing heat upon it, darkening the streets with her light, scorching all things dead and living. It grew so hot that sweat began to roll down the backs of even those that did not move. The horses glistened with it, and the King’s shirt darkened around the neckline and underneath the armpits.

Down, down the cart rolled. Slowly, torturously. The riders had to hold their horses so that the gap between them and the soldiers with the cart would not be too great. Prince Imrahil’s horse grew restless and agitated, stepping sideways and dancing underneath him when the pace became too slow. The Prince sat as if the horse stood still: motionless, neither looking at the people watching, nor turning back to see his King. He stared straight ahead, and his face was grim.

Down the cart rolled. The wheels creaked over the cobblestones, protesting the slow decent. The sound could be heard clearly over the marching feet of the soldiers, and the sound of metal hooves against the stone.

Down the cart rolled. Down the circles of the City, until they reached the Gate.

There, underneath the Gate, the cart stopped and slowly, laboriously, it turned. The Prince dismounted, and one of the soldiers took his reins while he climbed the stairs up to the top of the wall. There, above the Gate, were raised two poles with forked ends, and above them a great construction of wood.

Ropes hung from it, and great hooks at one end of each rope. These were lowered, and two soldiers – two Corsairs – climbed up upon the cart. They fastened the hooks underneath the beam that held the King. Twenty men grasped the other ends, and pulled.

The ropes jerked tight and the King was hoisted up in the air, up onto the wall above the Gate. The beam swung, and more men rushed forward. They steadied it and it was brought to rest upon the poles. The men fell back, leaving the King in full view of the people gathered on both sides of the wall.

Loud jeers rose from the orcs at the sight. The sound drifted over the walls and the people inside shifted and moved, but they did not speak.

Then the jeers died down. The Prince of Dol Amroth stepped out on the Wall beside the King.

Many trumpets sounded around the walls of the City, and heralds cried: “Hear, all gathered here, and witness the power and greatness of the Great Lord; the Ruler of Mordor; Protector of all lands East and West; He who is victorious in battle, glorious in victory and merciful to the conquered, righteous in judgement and wise among the Powers of the world. Hear His words from the mouth of His servant, one who has seen His power and glory and learned the wisdom of His counsel. Hear, all! and witness His justice and mercy on those that would oppose Him.”

The cry was echoed along the outer wall so that all the people gathered in the first circle and outside the wall heard it. The trumpets sounded again, and in the silence that followed, Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth drew breath, and stepped forward.

“I, Imrahil of Dol Amroth, have been charged with this duty: to make known the crimes that the people of Gondor have made themselves guilty of against the Great Lord, and to lay before you the negligence that the lord Faramir, Steward of Gondor, has shown towards his duty in the last year.” He was reading from a scroll. His voice rang clear through the hot air. The dust from the Pelennor that had been stirred when the multitude of people had found their places, had settled, and the air was clear.

“These are the sins of the people of Gondor: that those that call themselves ‘Faithful’ have rebelled against the Lord and opposed him, and that the people of Gondor have failed in their duty to show proper gratitude for the Great Lord’s protection through willing service and worship of him, and by their failure to eradicate the rebels from their midst.

“The lord Steward has failed in his duty on the following: in his diligence to apprehend the enemies of Gondor and the Great Lord; in his fervour to further the praise of our Protector; by his tardiness in the execution of the Lord’s wishes and his lenience toward known rebels, which has without doubt given them the courage to grow in numbers and impudence they would otherwise have lacked.

“Know therefore, people of Gondor, that no wrong-doing goes unpunished.” The Prince paused, and if any had been close enough, they would have seen him clench his jaw. For the first time that day he glanced at the King, and then he looked away, back to the scroll.

“The failings of a people are the failings of its leader,” Imrahil continued. “Therefore the Great Lord has decided to be merciful, and he will not let the punishment that the people of Gondor so richly deserve fall upon you, but will have the retribution fall on your leader, whose failings your sins reflect.

“The King Elessar, Aragorn son of Arathorn; Chieftain of the Northern Dúnedain; the heir of Isildur, Elendil’s son of Gondor, will bear the punishment on behalf of his subjects, and of his Steward, lord Faramir son of Denethor. He will receive thirty strokes of the single-tailed whip, or such number that will not endanger his life – whichever is the lowest.”

At this a murmur began to spread among the people gathered. It rumbled and grew like unto a wave that comes rolling in and breaks against the shore, lifting the water high into the air before it rushes down to shatter in white foam and glittering drops of water against the stones.

The King did not move.

He gave no sign that he had heard the verdict, or that he had noticed the wordless storm brewing beneath the wall, but the Nazgûl screamed once, and the Winged Beast circled down to the Gate. It landed on the wooden construction and perched there, a great shadow towering above the King.

He flinched, jerking in his ropes.

The crowed fell silent. The beast moved its head from side to side, slowly taking in the people. A predator searching its prey. The Nazgûl sat still, unmoving: a black terror even in the light of day. The crowd fell quieter still. Only when the wraith was satisfied that they were cowed did it take to the sky again. Prince Imrahil spoke into the silence.

“Five strokes are to be delivered here, above the Gate, and two more at the entrance to each circle of the City so that the people of Minas Tirith and the representatives from the towns and villages shall witness the justice of the Great Lord, and the consequences of their actions. The King will be taken through the streets of the City so that all, from the smallest to the greatest, shall be witnesses.

“The remaining blows will be delivered at the court of the Fountain, to be witnessed by the nobles and great men of Gondor.

“This is the verdict of the Great Lord, Protector of the East and West.”

The Prince fell quiet, rolled the scroll closed, and stepped back. Out stepped a Man to take up his place behind the King. He was dressed in black, with the Red Eye staring down on the people from his breast. He shook out the tail of the whip.

…

Only one man from Éomer’s company stood outside the Gate that day. Echil had been caught in the bustle of the Road, and now he stood as close to the Gate as he had been able to get.  He did not come close enough to see the face of his Chieftain, not as clearly as he had the day before, but he was close enough to see him close his eyes when the executioner stepped up behind him. Echil saw him take a breath, and then open his eyes again.

The executioner drew back his arm. A drum struck up, and Echil found himself unable to watch. When Imrahil read the sentence, he had been determined to watch, thinking that it somehow would make a difference, but he could not. Hearing the whip slice through the air was bad enough.

That sound was the only thing to be heard beside the drum. The strokes came slowly, one at the time. The drum would roll, and then, in the silence, the whip would whistle through the air and hit.

Then the drum rolled again.

On the inside of the Gate, at the back of the crowd, Húrin and Bergil stood. The older Ranger did not close his eyes. He watched as the blows fell, ripping the shirt of the King. He could not see any blood.

He was not sure whether it was a good sign.

The fifth stroke fell, swifter and harder than the other four, but Aragorn stayed silent. Húrin, who saw such things more easily than most, even at a distance, saw him relax slowly, but he held to his feet and did not slump. A speck of red appeared on the torn shirt.

Húrin wanted to swear.

“That… that was not too bad,” Bergil whispered. “It looked as if he did not even feel it. Until that last one.”

“He did.” Húrin did not look away. His voice was so quiet that the words were more breath than sound. “It was just the first stokes, and he has borne worse pain than five lashes before.” He must have, in ten years, and unless his eyes were deceiving him, the executioner did not strike as hard as he could. “There are twenty and five left to bear.” _And they mean him to bear them all._

Bergil did not answer, and Húrin was too intent on his Chieftain to speak further.

They lowered Aragorn down from the wall with much less ceremony. He hung in the air above the cart for a moment, inches above the cart floor. The soldiers swirled him round and guided the beam in place. And the procession moved off, north from the Gate, through the streets on the first level.

They took the long way round. Whether it was the Enemy’s design or his Lieutenant’s idea, they did not know, but it soon became clear that ‘all’ meant even those that did not fit around the Gates or the road leading up the levels; the King was to be displayed to the whole City, and those at the Gates were just lucky enough, if luck it could be called, to see the King pass more than once.

Many are the accounts of that day, preserved both in the memories of the people, and in the scrolls and writings left behind from that time. But one has been found, which I would here give. The finding of it was a surprise to us and only by luck did it come to me. I here give the surviving excerpt of a letter written by H’ajini, then a captain of the Haradrim soldiers, to his son:

“ _… you know the sound of our drums, and those of the wild ones that live beyond our cities, deep in the south. I tell you, my son, that the drums of the pale ones are very similar, but they do not strike them with their hands, like the wild ones, nor do they use the_ hammim  _that our drummers use. Their sticks have round, padded ends that make the sound of their drums deep and strong and full of a resonance I have not heard anywhere else._

_The sound of those drums is what I most clearly recall from my service today. The drums rolling, and the silence of the people._

_The pale ones are a strange people, my son. They shout where we would be silent, and fall silent where we would shout. I thought them without honour, with no pride that they could see their leaders beaten, and still hold to them. This is alien to us; we would have killed those that betrayed us, and died rather than let ourselves be captured. We would not have let those that had proven themselves weak rule._

_Never forget, my son, the teachings of the Great Lord, the giver of gifts:_

_Be strong._

_The weak should never be pitied, for they would lead our people to their end._

_This I have always held to, my son. But hear what I saw this day, and keep this in your mind. Perhaps, when you have grown wise with age, you can judge what strength is._

_Drums. Drums beat slow and heavy when we took the stone-house king from his prison through the streets of his city. His people were silent, only the beating of the drums could be heard. The beating of the drums and the creaking of wheels. The horses were restless, but the slow oxen walked as if they neither saw nor heard. Only the Winged Servant did they fear, and it was far above._

_Drums heralded our descent, down to the Gate. Drums called for silence when the orders of our Lord were read. The sea-prince it was that declared it. His daughter is most lovely; the commander of our company is waiting for the day that he will be allowed to take her to his home, but her father is against it and he has, for now, the Great Lord’s favour, as long as he bows to our Lord in proper worship. The sea-prince knows this, and the commander has not been able to find any fault in him since his return._

_Neither was there any to be found this day._

_This did not surprise me, for the sea-prince was tamed long ago. But their king was unknown to me, and though I did not know what to expect, I know that it was not what I saw._

_The drums rolled, a quick pattern unlike the slow beat of our descent. In the quiet that followed, all that could be heard was the sound of the whip falling on flesh. From where I stood, I could not see, but the drums rolled, and the whip struck and the king said no word. I did not see him until he was lowered again and we made him ready to be taken through the streets, back up from where we had come. Sweat stood on his brow and he had closed his eyes against the brightness of the sun, but I saw no other signs of pain. I had been charged with the task of giving him a drink of water at each gate, and so I did. One drink, no more, before the drums took up their slow beat and we moved on._

_He spoke to me then. The words were garbled, as if his tongue could not shape the proper sounds, but his voice, though hoarse, was steady when he whispered in my own tongue:_

_‘My thanks.’_

_The drums beat, and the cart began to move. I had no time to reply, had I wanted, had I known what to say. How he learned our tongue, I know not._

_The drums beat, and I had no words for him._

_Drums beat out our progress. All the way to the north-western point of the first circle and back, past the gate to the other side, and then back again, to the second gate where we hoisted him up on the wall, and the drums rolled and the whip licked the air, and all within the City was silent._

_It took us an hour or more to walk through the first circle, and the second took no less._

_My son, this day has been one of the longest days in my life. I walked beside the cart and I saw the faces of the pale people. And their king. The drums beat their slow pulse and the people were silent and the king did not try to speak to them. The wheels creaked and rumbled over the stones that paved the streets. Warmed by the sun, the City was still not as hot as our summer-heat, but the pale-skinned people are not used to the warmth of our sun. They grew hot, and worst it seemed to be for their king._

_Sweat poured from him, and I was close enough to hear his laboured breath. After the fourth gate, his posture began to sag, and he found it difficult, it seemed, to keep his footing whenever the cart rocked. But still he did not speak, nor cry out, and all that could be heard was the drums. The drums’ slow, relentless beat, the rumble of the wheels, the creaking of the ropes, the sea-prince’s voice – dryer for each time – declaring crimes and punishments to be borne. The crack and thud of the whip._

_My son, when you have grown wiser than I am now, tell me if I still live: is it weakness or strength to bear such humiliation, such shame, and speak no other words than a garbled ‘thanks’ in your enemy’s tongue?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Torture
> 
> Note on pronunciation of H’ajini: H’ is used to signify a Semitic glottis-stop (the Ayin) for which we have no letter. It is similar to a swallowing sound, or the sound ‘ng’ said without any vowels. The name is loosely based on the Old Hebrew word for “eye”
> 
> Hammin: Noise-makers, a type of curved drumsticks. I have made up the name loosely based on the Semitic root HMM which in Hebrew can mean ‘to disturb’ or ‘bring into motion and confusion’. The Hebrew and Aramaic Lexicon (HALOT) also states that in the Tigrinia language it (or a similar word) means “to make a noise, to roar”, which is the meaning I have adopted.


	20. Do Mot Break, My Heart...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: same as last chapter

The sun should not have been so hot. It was early still, and just a fortnight ago their main concern had been the snow that nearly blocked their path and delayed them almost a whole day. If not for that snow, perhaps he would not have had to stand here now, waiting under a too-hot sun. One day earlier, and by now they might have left this City of Stone far behind.

Éomer shifted on his feet. It had been hours since Imrahil had ridden out from the Citadel, and nothing had been said, except for the order that they all were to wait. And waited they had. Waited, while the sun grew hot. Waited, while they heard a distant jeering of orc-voices. Waited, while a silence grew, spreading through the City. Waited, and the only sound by which they might guess what was happening was the beating of drums. And they waited still.

Éomer moved again.

“Be still!” Aduiar spoke in a low voice. Éomer had to lean in close to hear what his words were.

“Be still,” Aduiar repeated. “Do not draw attention to yourself. Have you not stood guard before?”

“Not like this,” Éomer replied in the same voice. “I have always been allowed to move a little; not all guards need be as disciplined as those of the Citadel.”

“Then go get me some water; it will be excuse enough to keep the others from wondering about our conversation.”

Éomer did not answer, but he left his place behind Aduiar to fetch the water.

Two pavilions had been raised in the High Court, in the Place of the Fountain. They faced east, one on the north side of the court, and one on the south. At the Keel, at the outmost peak of the great pier of rock, where a man could see down to the Gate and there be seen by those below, two poles stood, taller than a man.

The poles were the first things Éomer had noticed when he entered. The second was the careful selection by which they all had been sorted to the pavilions. Aduiar had noticed the sorting at once.

All around them were darker-skinned Southrons and men in the fine clothes favoured by the Corsairs. It was Aduiar’s Corsair blood that had put them in this pavilion, with cloth spread out above their heads, shading from the sun, and cups of water to be had to slake their thirst while they waited.

The other pavilion, filled with those that were the great men of Gondor before the war, had no shade, and no servings. Éomer knew more than one face in that crowd, and knew that luck alone had saved him from being recognised. Húrin had been right about the risk.

A single chair, shaded against the sun by black silk, stood in the middle of the court. It was empty, but beside it stood Faramir. He was clad in simple clothes; a white, linen shirt and no jacked. His head was bare. He neither spoke nor moved, and he looked east. Éomer could see him flinch each time the drums rolled.

The Master of Isengard was nowhere to be seen.

Éomer returned with the water, and to the wait. Aduiar took the cup from his hands and sipped at it while they waited. They did not speak. Neither did those around.

The drums and the sounds came closer. Éomer could hear a voice speaking, but the words he could not make out. He thought he recognised the speaker: Prince Imrahil. For a long time he spoke, and no sound interrupted him. No drums, no murmur from the crowd. No shout of protest.

Above the _dwimmerlaik_ circled nearer and Éomer shuddered. If it were to stay…

The drums rolled and Éomer tensed in preparation for … what? He did not know. The silence deepened and in it the sound of a whip drifted up to the High Court. This time Éomer echoed Faramir’s flinch.

The drums rolled again, and then they could hear movement. They waited, but the wait was almost at an end. Blearing trumpets cut through the silence and back into the High Court came Imrahil with his escort. He was on foot this time – Éomer could vividly recall the fine horses they had ridden – and behind them followed the soldiers, dragging a Man.

His head was bare, dark specked with grey, and he was dressed in the same manner as Faramir. But his shirt was torn and bloody at the back.

Éomer clenched his jaw in anger. He could do nothing but stand and watch. _We should have acted last night, caution be damned._ But they had not, and now he had to play his part: to stand still and not move.

Aragorn was taken to stand between the poles. He could walk and stand on his own, and that at least was a comfort. Éomer could not make out his expression at this distance, but his posture spoke of ill-hidden pain.

More blearing trumpets, and two things happened at once.

The _dwimmerlaik_ descended to perch halfway down the Tower of Ecthelion. _Damn, damn, damn that thing!_ Would they be able to pull off their plan with _that_ close by? They would have to. Éomer saw the shudder that ran through Aragorn when it landed. It echoed his own. _We will not leave you here_ , he vowed.

At the same time, unnoticed by Éomer at first, the Master of Isengard – Lieutenant of Barad-dûr and foul Mouth of the Enemy – entered the court. Éomer did not see him until he sat down in the empty chair. He gave a nod, and Imrahil stepped forward.

For one moment, Éomer thought his luck had run out. Imrahil looked to the pavilion where he stood. Then he saw that the Prince did not look at him, but at the woman sitting at the front, below Aduiar. He could only see her dark hair; she, too, bore nothing to cover her head and her hair flowed freely down her shoulders. Beside her sat a Haradrim man. Too close, Éomer thought, and he did not quite know why he thought so. Perhaps it was the look on Imrahil’s face.

Imrahil began to speak. His voice was rough and parched and at his words, Éomer understood, even better, the flinches of the Steward. Faramir stared straight ahead, and Éomer saw Aragorn looking across the court towards his Steward. His eyes were narrow slits against the sun, part of his face in shadow. His hands were tied, and two guards held him in place. Several more stood behind him, armed and ready. Did they fear him, or was it just another show of strength? Aragorn stood as straight as could be in their grip, but Éomer had seen the blood on his back, had heard the rolling of the drums and he did not need Imrahil’s words to guess what had happened. And what was about to.

Imrahil finished and took his place on the other side of Isengard. The two guards turned Aragorn around, and the rest of the soldiers surged forward to help cut his bonds and chain him to the poles before they drew back again. The executioner took his place and waited for his sign.

“The remaining sentence will be delivered in counts of five. After each count, a healer will determine whether the sentence can continue.”

Éomer swallowed at the familiar formality of it all; he had been taught about the requirements of Gondorian law on public punishments. Another mockery. More cruel, it seemed to him, than the tortures he had heard of from the Master of Isengard. The Enemy had planned this.

The drums rolled and the whip struck. One, two, three times, and Aragorn arched in his bonds. Four, five times, and his knees buckled under him.

He had made no sound.

In the pause that followed, Éomer saw him finding his feet once more. A man drew near the poles. Éomer thought he had seen him before, but ten years is a long time. Was it the same healer that had tended his sister? He could not be sure, but he hoped it was. He would stop the punishment, if he could. Éomer was sure of it.

But it did not stop. The king stood; none would believe that his life was in danger while he still stood. The drums rolled again, and again. And again. They rolled their allotted number, and at the end Aragorn hung slumped from the poles. A half-strangled sound, bitten off before it could fully escape, drifted across the court, and he did not regain his feet. Not this time. Éomer did not know the healers’ craft, but the healer did something, that much he could see. Aragorn did not move, and the healer spoke to the executioner. Their words were too low to be heard; still Éomer guessed that they did not agree. A soldier was sent running to the Master of Isengard.

Isengard rose. “We will return in one hour.”

He turned, and with a wave of his hand Imrahil followed him, back into the Tower. Faramir stayed. He did not move, and he did not look at anyone else; he kept his eyes locked on his king.

The executioner stepped back, but the healer hovered as close to the king as the soldiers would let him. Aragorn stayed slumped in his bonds.

The servants around Éomer began to move, leaving to fetch refreshments for their masters. But Aduiar still clenched the cup Éomer had brought him, half-emptied, and gave no sign for him to fill it. He did not drink. Éomer stayed behind him, playing his part and watching his friend. He did not know whether he wished him to stir or not.

So intent on Aragorn was Éomer, that he almost missed the movement in front of him. The woman he had noted earlier stood. Her companion grabbed her hand to force her back down, but she wrested her arm free.

“Do not touch me,” she said. “I merely wish to stretch my legs.”

Éomer, who had not noted such things before, gave notice to the shape of her neck, the proud arch of it, like a horse’s when it was at its most beautiful. And most haughty. She walked from him, over to where the water was served, and the servants parted for her. She took a cup of water and then she walked, straight across the court, past the pavilions, past Faramir, all the way across to the king.

The soldiers moved to stop her, but she would not be denied. Up to the king she walked, and he, sensing some movement, somehow found the strength to lift his head. Gently she lifted the cup to his lips.

“Who is she?”

“Who?”

“That woman, who is she?” Éomer asked again. “Imrahil looked at her before he spoke, and none stopped her now. Why?”

“I have not seen her before,” Aduiar answered. “But if I were to hazard a guess, I would say that it must be Imrahil’s daughter. From what I have heard, she is given some lenience – as long as her father does what he is told.”

_And this is what she uses that lenience for_ , Éomer thought. _Would that such a lady was free of all evil._

He watched her lower the cup and gather her sleeve in one hand. She lifted it – slowly, carefully as he would calm a skittish beast – and wiped something from Aragorn’s face. He drew back, as much as the bonds and his strength allowed. Éomer could not see whether Aragorn said anything, but her lips moved. He could not hear what she said.

Their lenience ended there. Two soldiers stepped forward, and she drew back.

_She knows her limits._ Éomer watched her walk back, and the man that had been sitting beside her rose to meet her.

“Allow me to refill your cup, lord mayor.” Before Aduiar could nod his approval, Éomer had taken the cup from his hands and moved away. He walked behind the man, keeping some distance, and watched him.

The man’s shoulders were stiff and tense; he was clearly angry. He reached the entrance of the pavilion in time to meet the lady there, and he immediately grabbed her wrist.

“What…!”

He did not have the time to say anything more before Éomer crashed into him, bringing them both to the ground. His grip on the lady did not loosen at once, and she was dragged down with the two men.

The Haradric soldier twisted away from underneath Éomer, and Éomer let him get loose and regain his feet first.

“Clumsy fool!”

He kicked at Éomer, but too soon: he had not yet regained his balance and his foot merely grazed him. Éomer made a show of scrambling to his feet.

“I am sorry, master. I should have been more careful, master; forgive me, it was my fault.” Éomer babbled any apology he could think of; a servant would be expected to grovel, would he not? He kept his head down, both completing the picture and hiding his eyes.

The man struck again, with his hand this time. Éomer saw it coming, and he made himself stay and let the hand hit. He moved with the stroke and let himself fall to the ground. He saw a movement in the corner of his eye and tensed. Had he misjudged the man’s anger? But no more strokes fell. Instead, he heard a rustle of clothes and a slim hand was put on his arm. The lady knelt beside him and this had stayed the other man.

“It was an accident,” she said. “Leave him be; it is not even your servant.”

“But he is mine.” Aduiar had reached the scene. “Accept my apology that such clumsiness has troubled you, captain. He has but recently joined my service, and I fear he has not been fully trained yet. If you wish, I will see him punished, but I prefer to deal out such corrections myself.”

“Lord Mayor.” The Haradric captain bowed. “I would not presume to doubt your diligence. But my honour would be best served if I witness the correction,” he said. “If that would not offend.”

“Not at all,” Aduiar replied. He looked around. Most eyes were on them, though the soldiers stayed at their posts and did not interfere. Neither did anyone else. Éomer had stayed on the ground and the lady still knelt beside him. “I am sure that you will agree that this is not the time and place, though. May I ask you to come by in the morning, and we will see it done then?”

The captain nodded. “I will come early,” he said. “And see my honour restored.” He turned to the woman and held out his hand. “Lady, let me escort you back to your seat.”

She overlooked the hand and turned to Éomer to help him up. “That was careless of you,” she said, her words for him alone. “I do not need a servant’s help to handle _him_. Do you not know who I am?”

“No, lady,” Éomer answered. “I do not.” He began to rise, but she gathered her sleeve in her hand like he had seen her do before, and that stopped him. She dabbed at his cheek where the stroke had opened the skin: the captain wore more than one ring to show his wealth. Éomer let her, not quite sure how he should act.

“Let that be a lesson to my pride then,” she said. There was a ghost of a smile on her lips, and the echo of laughter in her voice. “Thank you. I will talk to him: I do not wish to see you punished for my sake.”

“Do not trouble yourself for me, lady,” Éomer answered. “I would only ask you one thing.”

“And what would a servant ask of me?”

Éomer rose to his feet and took her with him. “Your name, lady.”

To that she did smile. “Lothíriel.”

And she was gone.

…

Borondir and Mablung had found their places at the gate to the sixth circle. From there, they could see and hear the sentence being carried out, not only at that gate, but the remaining punishment handed out in the High Court. From their place, they could see where the king was chained, and the City was quiet enough that Borondir did not doubt that all could hear the drum rolls, perhaps even the thud of the whip. The people around him were tense; some with anger, others with despair. Borondir wished to act, but his limbs were heavy and his heart numb with fear.

He blamed the Nazgûl.

The _thing_ sapped the strength from his limbs and the will from his heart. He feared the others would not wish to complete their plans, and that he would not dare oppose them. He feared he would not dare go with them if they did. And he could not see how they could succeed, if that _thing_ were to remain.

“They have stopped.”

Borondir realised that he had let his mind wander. He looked up and saw that Mablung was right; the figure of the king hung slumped between the poles, alone against the sky.

“The sentence is not done,” Mablung said. “Still they have stopped.”

“Why?”

“I do not know,” Mablung answered. “But the Prince said that they would stop if the King’s life were endangered. If I have counted right, there are five strokes left, out of thirty. Far less than that could cripple or kill a man.”

Borondir turned his head away from the sight. He looked, instead, to Mablung.

“Do you think…?”

“Look!” Mablung interrupted. He pointed up, and Borondir turned back to see the figure of a woman standing by the King. It was too far to see what she did, but he could discern the King lifting his head.

“They have kept the strokes light,” Mablung said. “Or lighter than what is their wont. They wanted the King to bear them all, and still have their hostage to hold against us. And the Steward.”

“Not light enough, it seems,” Borondir said. “Since they stopped.”

“The King is still there,” Mablung replied. “And we have not been dispersed. My guess is that it is just a pause, that they may continue when he has recovered.”

Borondir did not answer, and Mablung said no more. They watched the King – there was little else to do – who once more hung alone, a dark shape against the sky, and waited.

And hour passed. Borondir did not know how long they had planed to wait, but before he saw anyone else approach the King, he saw him stir and straighten in his bonds once more. He saw him stand. Not proud or tall, but he stood, and soon after shapes of men joined the King there at the peak of the great keel of stone. The shapes mixed and blurred and he could not see what they did, but then they separated again. Two figures stood against the sky. The King had been turned around and behind him – at the outmost end of the peak – the executioner raised his whip.

…

Éomer closed his eyes when the soldiers drifted away and left Aragorn exposed to the eyes of the crowd once more. It was hard enough to see his bloodied back, but be forced to see the pain revealed in his face? Have them strip away all defence against the shame?

He could not.

The drums rolled, and Éomer swore to ban all drums from his kingdom. The drums rolled, and Éomer would rather hear the _dwimmerlaik_ ’s scream. The drums rolled, and a scream cut through the air. Éomer’s eyes flew open, for one second sure that he had uttered that scream himself.

He had not.

Aragorn hung slumped between the poles again. His face was drawn in pain, but his head was raised and his eyes, his eyes burned. Angry, desperate – Éomer could not say. He was looking at the Steward, and Faramir was looking back. _His_ face was pale, and he was shaking.

It was Faramir’s voice that had rung above the silence.

Éomer saw Aragorn shake his head, and Faramir’s hands curl into fists. The drums rolled, and how could he turn away again? How could he not look? How could he not witness the fight the two men fought?

He must.

The drums stopped, and the stroke fell, and his friend was gone. In his place, some twisted stranger was all that remained. _Under torture, all men look the same._ Éomer could not recall who had told him so, but at this moment he saw the truth of that statement. He wished he had not seen it. He wished that he could have blocked his eyes and ears; that noise could not have come from his friend’s mouth. That face could not be _his_.

Then the moment passed, and it was Aragorn again. Head down, eyes closed, his body tense, but he was himself once more. The drums rolled one last time, then stopped. The executioner raised his arm, and waited. Waited until the king lifted his head, and Isengard nodded.

Hard and fast, more so than any of the strokes before, the last stroke fell with the force of anger.

Aragorn screamed.

This time there could be no mistaking it. It rang in the silence of the Court and sped down the circles of the City. In the aftermath, the executioner rolled up his whip and came forward to bow before the Master of Isengard, the Steward, and the Prince of Dol Amroth. Behind him, the king hung slumped in his bonds.

Isengard acknowledged the bow with a wave and left it to Imrahil to thank the man for his service. He remained seated even after the executioner had withdrawn, shifting his gaze between Steward and King. Faramir had not taken his eyes off Aragorn. The Master of Isengard smiled. He rose, and walked over to where the king was hanging.

Éomer could not see if Aragorn stirred. The Master of Isengard blocked the view, and he could only see him leaning forward, as if to have a closer look on Aragorn’s face or whisper something in his ear. Then he straightened, and without turning he waved Faramir over.

It was, Éomer supposed, the sign for them all to leave. Around him, the guests were rising and drifting out from the pavilions. Imrahil meet his daughter at the entrance. He took her arm and led her away. Away from the Haradrim captain, away from the sight of the king. Away from Éomer. He watched them go from the corner of his eye, his head kept down so that none, not Imrahil or any other, would glimpse his face by chance. He saw her whisper to her father, but he shook his head and led her quickly away. They disappeared between the houses south of the White Tower.

“With me,” Aduiar hissed and tore Éomer’s attention away from her. “Keep your head down and stay behind me; we do not want more attention drawn to you.”

Éomer nodded. People from the two pavilions mixed and mingled; some might remember the young king from ten years ago. But even as he tried to stay behind Aduiar and not draw attention to himself, his eyes kept straying back to the houses where she had gone. It took him some time to notice that they were following the throng of people, not to the tunnel as he had thought, but to the Embrasure. To Aragorn. To Faramir. To the Master of Isengard.

That chased Imrahil’s daughter out of his thoughts.

…

Fastred spent most of the day moving between the stables and the outdoor enclosures. He had given the other stablehands one look, and decided that the horsemanship in Gondor was even worse than he had thought. No wonder that the stable-master had wanted him, even with all the questions the guards had asked, all the problems he might bring him. All the problems Fastred knew he _would_ bring. And no wonder he had given him responsibility for the horses and stables during this…whatever they called it.

That responsibility left little room for brooding, though. Soon enough he understood just why the stable-master had been so desperate to have him, even more desperate than the utter ignorance of the stableboys would warrant. He must have had warning.

“Nazgûl! Nazgûl!”

the cry went up, and the air was filled with the clamour of hooves and the panic of horses.

Firefoot recognized the threat, and only luck, and the trust of his mare, enabled Fastred to keep the small herd from breaking out. Firefoot was ready to jump the fence, no matter the height, but he was unwilling to leave _his_ mare behind. And the rest followed his lead.

“You must have taken, gentle one,” Fastred mumbled, more to himself than the mare. “He is too protective by far. How he can know this soon, I have no idea, but I have never known him to be wrong.”

The mare shifted around, not quite calmed by his presence, but she stayed, and as the _dwimmerlaik_ rose to circle high above the City, the horses calmed. Somewhat.

“Master?”

One of the stableboys approached him. “We need help in the stable. It is the mayor’s mare.”

“Stay here,” Fastred ordered. “Let me know if they become restless again. More restless. And if anything happens, try to keep the mare here; that will hopefully keep the rest close.” He did not wait to see if the boy obeyed; he turned and hurried towards the stable.

In his haste, he almost let the mare out. A fury of hooves met him at the door. No time to think, just to react – and he reacted like a man would: meet the threat head-on.

He ducked under the flailing hooves and struck at the belly of the mare. Shocked, the mare rose higher and Fastred feared – now that he had time to think – that she would fall over. But she landed on her feet, and backed away from this man that did not act as she was used to.

“Now you have done it,” Fastred muttered to himself. “Fool! She is a mare, not a stallion.”

Even so, when the mare pushed forward again, he mirrored her.

She stopped, puzzled.

_At least she has forgotten the_ dwimmerlaik, Fastred thought. _It is to be hoped that it will be far enough away, and continue to be so._

At that moment, one of the stableboys took it upon himself to capture the mare. He pressed himself between the stalls and the horse and reached for her halter. He was lucky. He missed.

The mare turned so quickly that if he had gotten hold of the halter, he would have lost his fingers. Or been dragged around and thrown into a wall or crushed against the stalls. As it was, the boy fell, hard against the floor.

_“Ganghere!”_

Fastred did not notice that he had slipped into his own language. He did not stop to see if the boy got up, merely jumped over him and followed the horse. If the other horses got loose…

“Try to keep the others calm,” he called. “And stay away from her!”

At the other end of the stable, Fastred saw another stableboy, older than the rest, already more man than boy. He stood against the wooden wall that blocked the end of the hall. The mare skidded on the cobbled floor, halting in front of him.

“Get away from her!”

Fastred ran. He saw her rise up on her hinds, above the youth. He saw him shrink back, and then a glint lighted in his eyes, pale and fey.

“Don’t…!”

Too late. The warning died on Fastred’s lips. The mare came down, crushing wood and bone. Her screams drowned all other sounds they could have made, the breaking wood drowned out the rest. Before Fastred could reach her, she was gone. All that was left: splinters, broken wood and blood. He knelt beside the fallen youth. He stirred when Fastred cleared away some of the debris that covered him. Fastred bent to support his head.

“If there is anyone that knows about healing, then fetch him here,” he ordered. “And one of you follow the mare.” He had not turned for the youth, and softer he spoke. “Why did you not get out of her way?”

“It worked for you.” The youth’s voice was weak.

“I was a fool and did not think. Only luck saved me,” Fastred said.

“I…” whatever he had meant to say was lost in violent coughing, and in blood, and Fastred did not know what to do. He looked around. The boys were standing there: none had moved.

“Did I not tell you to fetch a healer? And to follow the mare? Why are you all still here?”

They flinched at his tone, but did not move.

“Well?”

“Sir,” one of them answered. “We are not to leave the stables. The Master will beat us if we do. Or give us to the soldiers.”

Fastred had no answer for that.

“Come here,” he ordered the boy instead. “Make him comfortable. If you can, move him to a bed.” He let the boy take his place and stood up and took stock of the boys. They were too few, too young, but they would have to manage. One of the boys was smaller than the rest, much smaller. He reminded him of the girl in Calembel; one whose body had stopped growing before it had reached its full stature. But the boy looked as if he could run fast. He took him with him and left the rest to help their friends, and to try to keep the horses calm should the _dwimmerlaik_ come too close again.

No other horses had broken out, thankfully. In the pens, they moved restlessly but they had not broken out in a panic again. Fastred turned to the boy.

“Listen to me,” he said. “That boy…”

“Ingold,” the boy said.

“Ingold, right,” Fastred replied. He should have been able to remember that name. “Listen, Ingold is badly hurt. He needs a healer; you must try to find him one.”

“But, the soldiers…” the boy began. Fastred cut him off.

“He will die,” he said. “If you do not find him a healer, Ingold will die. Do you understand me?”

The boy nodded.

“Go!”

He ran. A skinny, gangly boy, all legs and knees, running with a life in his hands. He ran fast.

“Forgive me,” Fastred muttered as the boy left. “Forgive me for laying this on you, small one. I hope I will be proven wrong.”

The mare was long gone. Fastred guessed she had fled north and west, away from the City and the terror of the winged beast. If he was lucky, she would not have run far and he could fetch her back quickly enough. Still, his chances were better astride a horse. Not his own, though.

“Lad!” he called for the boy left outside. He could see him near the pens.  “I need your help. Go fetch me the gelding that came with the mare, he is in the second stall. The bridle hangs on the door. Be quick about it.”

“And his saddle?”

“Do not bother with it, there is no time.

“But... you need a saddle.”

“Others beside Elves can ride bareback at need,” Fastred answered. “And I do not wish to waste more time. The mare is already far from here; hurry.”

The boy ran, and returned with Ingold’s gelding soon enough. Not as soon as Fastred would have wished, but it would have to do. Before long, he was mounted.

“Try to keep the horses calm,” he told the boy. “I will return shortly.”

He hoped he would not be proved false; he could not see the mare and would have to begin his search on a guess. He hoped to luck. And luck was with him, in part.

The Pelennor was open enough that Fastred could see far, and further even when mounted. A little way from the stables, he spotted the mare; a dark shape running towards the forest. He followed.

The gelding’s gait was stiff and uneven, and his withers were really too prominent for comfort. Saddles were made for a reason. He could feel the gelding’s back hollowing, making it all worse. He had no time for a nice warming up of the horse.

Fastred pressed his legs a little firmer around its flanks. Nothing happened, so he dug his heels in and wished for his spurs. To his surprise, the horse reacted. Its gait evened, a little, as its hindlegs gathered more underneath it. And, blessed relief, its back rounded and began to work. With that, the withers became a little less pointed. Fastred might survive still. Now all he had to do was to overtake the mare.

He found her just outside the broken wall where she had stopped. Taking Ingold’s horse had been a good idea; the mare knew him, and she was more than willing to let Fastred recapture her. Freedom, when it meant being alone, was not a good thing, she had found.

Fastred’s problems began on his return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Under torture, all men look the same." Paraphrased from memory from C. S. Lewis, in the unfinished story: “Ten Years Later”
> 
> Ganghere -(OE) Footsoldiers. Rohirric insult


	21. ...Under the Burden of Your Grief

A handful of mounted soldiers waited in the yard when Fastred returned. The boy, Échen, had not found a healer. He had been found by the soldiers instead.

“Are you the one called Thorongil?” one of the soldiers asked. Their leader: A corporal by the look of him.

_I know no such man_. The words were on his lips, ready to leap out. He caught them in time, remembering that it was the name he had given at the Gate. Húrin had given him a strange look, and Fastred admitted later that it might not have been the best name to choose, but it was the only name Fastred could think of at the time that could fit a man of Gondor. The only other name that popped into his mind had been ‘Eorl’, and he was not that stupid. So ‘Thorongil’ it became. The scribe had not commented.

Besides, Fastred had heard the stories from his father, and the name stuck, and it was not as if anyone would believe _he_ was the captain. The man was dead years ago, of old age if nothing else.

“Are you Thorongil?” the guard asked again.

“Yes,” Fastred replied. “At your service.”

“And your father’s name?”

“Ingold.” That name was common enough.

The soldier did not comment on any of the names either; he had other concerns. “The condition for your release from the City was that you would not leave the stable and its grounds,” he said. “You have broken the restrictions laid on you, and have thus forfeited your freedom. You will dismount and surrender yourself.”

“I was merely recapturing this mare,” Fastred explained. “The property of the Mayor of Calembel. He would be most displeased should she be lost. I feared injury to her – my fear proved correct, as you can see – and I was the only one here that stood a chance to catch her.”

“You will dismount and surrender yourself,” the soldier repeated.

“Look, I came straight back here as soon as I had caught her. If I wanted to leave, I would not have come back at all.”

“Your reasons are not our concern. Dismount.”

Fastred hesitated. He saw no good way out of this, but he was not sure what would be less evil.

Luck, again, helped him by sending a most unexpected saviour: the Nazgûl descended on the great Gate, and its cry sent the horses into a panic for the second time that day.

Somehow, and to the end of his days he did not know how, Fastred managed to stay seated. The mare was bound to the gelding’s tail and had no choice but to follow him around and around in small circles in the yard. Fastred could only hope none came too near before both calmed. Until then, all he could do was try to stay seated, and steer the horse in circles to stop it from carrying him away.

The soldiers were less fortunate – or less skilled. Three of them kept their seat, but they were carried off when their horses bolted. The remaining soldiers did not. Their horses followed their companions, leaving their riders on the ground. By the time the corporal had climbed back to his feet, they were out of sight, gone across the fields.

His left arm hung useless by his side, and he limped. His companion did not even rise, but lay groaning on the ground, trying to roll out of reach of the mare’s hooves. It was the stable-master who managed to drag him away before she kicked him. It took some time before Fastred got the horses calmed. It was not until the _dwimmerlaik_ had once more returned to the sky, that he had enough control to dismount.

The stable-master had by then summoned the healer to look after the soldiers. The corporal sat on an upturned bucket while the healer prodded at his shoulder. He rose before the healer had quite finished, clearly about to speak. The stable-master spoke quickly, before the soldier could.

“Corporal,” he said. “You can see now why I need this man. I noticed his skill with horses and was able to persuade him to work for me. Until the Servant of the Great Lord departs from the City, the horses will be restless at best, and you have experienced yourself the fear of the animals whenever he draws too near. Horses care not for a man’s standing – they will throw beggar and lord alike – and so those with the gift of their touch are rare and valuable. Since the Rohirrim refused the protection and gifts of the Great Lord, there are even less with that skill among us. Until the celebrations are over, and the Lord’s servant returns, I need this man.”

The corporal glared at Fastred, but he nodded to the stable-master. “Very well,” he said. “I will drop the matter for now, but if I get into trouble over this, you both shall regret it.”

“I thank you,” the stable-master said. “And I will of course make sure you suffer no loss from this.

“Thorongil! Go tend to the mare. Your former master will be displeased to see her injured, and your horsemanship will not save you if she is not well cared for now.” He turned back to the corporal. “Let us see if we cannot come to an agreement.”

It was the last of the conversation Fastred heard. The corporal sat down again to let the healer finish, and the stable-master spoke with him in low voices.

Glad that he did not have to fight his way out and leave the rest of the horses behind, Fastred took the horses to the stables. He left Ingold’s gelding to the care of one of the boys, and began tending Aduiar’s mare.

She had several small wounds on her forelegs from the splintered wood. Mostly scraped skin, but a few were shallow cuts and one or two of the injuries looked like they were deeper. He would have to wash off the blood before he could tell how serious they were. He turned his attention to her shoulders and flanks next. She had one long but shallow scrape on her left shoulder that bled a little, and on her right flank a small cut, but he found no other injuries.

“How is she?”

Échen put down a bucket of water beside the stall. Clean cloth and bandages, too, and soap to clean the wounds.

“It looks worse than it is, I think,” Fastred answered. “I will have to clean the bleeding wounds to know how deep they are, but she showed no sign of lameness when I brought her in, and from what I can see, the wounds are shallow. They may scar, but I do not think she will suffer any damage.”

“That is good to hear,” the stable-master said. He had entered the stable while Fastred spoke. “Though mayor Aduiar will not be happy to have her scarred. She is his pride and the apple of his eye. His people favour the mares, I have heard.”

Fastred only nodded.

“How long before she will heal?” the master asked. “I must be prepared to pay him some compensation for the time she is injured, and I do not think I will be able to charge him for the extra stabling until she is healed.”

“I do not think any box-rest is needed,” Fastred replied. “I do not know how long it will take for the cuts to grow until I know how deep the cuts are, but she was not lame earlier. She has no cuts where the saddle will lie and I see no serious swelling. If he wanted, the mayor could take her home as soon as she has been cleaned.”

“She is bleeding.”

“Yes, but horses are not disabled by a little blood. I will bind the cuts if the bleeding does not stop by the time I have cleaned them, and I will probably bind them before the mayor comes for her, though I do not think it will be necessary. It will be more for his benefit than the mare’s. In the wild horses suffer worse wounds than these without anyone to tend them, and they are fine.”

“Well, I did hire you for your horsemanship,” the stable-master said. “But make sure it can be seen that she has been cared for; my reputation hangs in the balance. I will not hesitate to leave you to the soldiers the next time, if you ruin it. The owners expect to see that something is done, should their horses need care.”

Fastred nodded. Even in the Mark there were at times disagreements on the best way to keep the horses, and on what measures to take with bleeding wounds. The Faithful had little supplies at the best of times, and so they had learned to spare what they had. They rarely bandaged, or treated a wound beyond a simple cleaning, unless it was truly needed. Not so with those of power in Gondor, he guessed.

Both Échen and the master stayed outside the box while Fastred cleaned the wounds. The mare was restless and it took longer than Fastred had thought to calm her. And she would not let him clean the right leg. After several tries, he gave up.

“Could you go somewhere else, please?” he asked. “Both of you. You are making her more anxious by staring at her. This is difficult enough as it is.”

Échen ducked his head and left at once. The stable-master looked at Fastred for a moment before he said: “Two of the soldiers came back horseless; the third was last seen on his horse, being carried further away. They took the corporal and the wounded soldier with them, back to the Gate, but guards will come by regularly. Do not leave the stables again, even to recapture a loose horse. I will stay outside and deal with any loose horses; there will be no need for you to do so.” He paused. “You have been useful to me, but today you cost me much. I hope I will have no more trouble for your sake.”

“I am sorry,” Fastred said. “I…” He did not know what to say: ‘ _I will cause much more before next sunrise’_? Or: ‘ _You will not have to worry about me after tonight’_? Neither would be well received.

“Just stay inside and do what I hired you to do. The horses in the pens seem less scared; you are needed more here.”

“As you wish,” Fastred replied. He hoped Echil would find some excuse to enter the stable and find him, or he and Bádon would have to go in blind later. The stable-master left him to finish tending the mare.

The cuts bled more than he had hoped, but he thought she would be able to keep up with the rest. He wrapped both legs to make sure the bleeding stopped, and that the wounds stayed clean as long as possible.

The rest of the day was quiet in comparison. The horses were restless, and one more time the _thing_ came close enough to worry the horses further, but without the panic of the first two times. Fastred did not leave the stable again, but the boys would come and go.

The boy Échen stood a few feet away, watching Fastred clean up the mess where the mare had broken through the wall. Fastred watched him in turn, out of the corner of one eye. The other he kept on the task of rebuilding the wall without making it too sturdy. They might need the way out later. If he could just cover up the hole without actually repairing it…

“I ran really fast.”

_Yes, I could see._ Fastred did not turn to the boy, but he nodded.

“I ran as fast as I could, but the soldiers saw me before I found the healer. They caught me and would not listen.” _I tried; I really tried._ The words were there, unspoken at the edge of his voice.

“It was not your fault.” _It was mine. If anyone’s, it was mine._ Fastred still did not turn from his work and Échen fell silent. Shortly after, he left, and another boy took his place. Fastred patched the wall with thin planks, pausing only to make rounds to see to the horses. The mare had stopped bleeding, but he left the bandages on. It would make the stable-master feel better.

“The City is all quiet,” Échen said next time he came in. Fastred did not answer. “I thought I heard drums, but Rodhir says I am imagining it.”

“There are drums,” Fastred answered. “You can feel them through the soles of your feet.”

The boy nodded.

…

Fastred was not sure when the drums had stopped, not sure how the day had come to an end. He knew, at one point, that the _dwimmerlaik_ had left, withdrawn far enough to let the horses calm down. He could see the tension leave them; saw how they began to eat again. How they stopped pacing. The stable-master let him out then, to see to the other horses, but he did not let Fastred out of his sight. Two soldiers came by while he checked Bereth for wounds – one of the boys had seen him almost break through the fence trying to get away from Firefoot. The fence had held, though, and he saw no marks.

The soldiers spoke with the stable-master, and glared at Fastred. Fastred kept his head down and his tongue quiet. They did not speak to him, but they watched him until the master ordered him inside again.

The hours left until nightfall were long and full of rumours. Fastred could not speak with Echil, or any of the men that had been at the Gate, but the boys whispered while they worked, asked him while they ate. As if he knew better than they what had happened in the City. The stable-master watched him, and so he worked and ate and said little.

“The King was whipped,” Rodhir, one of the older boys, said. “One of the men said so. They tied him to the Gate an’ whipped him ‘til he bled.”

Échen stopped eating. He carefully put his bread down and stared at it. “Why?” he asked.

“What do you mean ‘why’? They did. They are the Great Lord’s trusted servants. He must have deserved it.” Rodhir spoke with the conviction of youth.

“But he’s the _King_.” The King could not do wrong. How could anyone do wrong when they were the King?

The stable-master ended all further debate on the question. “It was the fault of the rebels,” he said. “And of the Steward; it was announced by the Prince Imrahil himself. Now eat or get back to work, and don’t speak of things you don’t understand.”

They went back to work shortly after.

Échen worked with Fastred in the stables again. He was sweeping the floor and did his best to stay away from the horses. Especially the mare. He watched while Fastred fed the horses, and stared when he went in to the mare with her food. She danced with impatience and lunged for the hay when he opened the door, but Fastred shooed her of.

“She killed Ingold.”

“I know,” Fastred answered.

“What if she kills you?”

“It was not her fault,” Fastred explained. “The _nazgûl_ scared her. Those things are hard enough for us to bear, but animals – all good animals – fear them. Even the horses of the soldiers fled in panic.”

“What if it comes back?” _What if she kills again?_

Fastred closed the door and turned to the boy. “Listen,” he said. “Horses are big, powerful animals. Much stronger than we. But they are also gentle, most of the time, and loyal and brave. They will do _anything_ for you if you win their hearts. If you treat them right.

“They cannot be bribed or bullied; their trust must be earned, and they see through all deceit. You cannot fool them.

“They love freedom and the wide, open skies where the eye sees far and where they can run for days. But when fear takes over their reason, they will flee heedlessly, and if they can’t, then wish yourself far away. Do not stand in their way then. I have seen bears and wolves flee and fall before their hooves. But learn to read them right, and you will not be harmed.

“Most of the time.”

He only muttered the last, unable – like his king – to lie if he could avoid it. But Échen heard. Of course _that_ was what he heard. Fastred sighed.

“Look,” he said. “Horses can be dangerous. Unless they are one of the _mearas_ , the great steeds of the sons of Eorl, they will not understand the speech of Men, which is a language of sounds. Therefore, we must learn the language of horses, which is a language of the body. Learning it, we can most times understand them and know what to do so that neither we, nor the horse, are hurt.”

“Have you ever feared them?” Échen looked, if possible, smaller than his build.

Fastred saw why men would lie. “No,” he answered. “But I know many that do, or have done so. Many of them are good horsemen too.”

“How can they be, if they are afraid?”

“Fear is not always a bad thing. There are things that should be feared, should be avoided if possible. Fear can keep you alive. But fear must be controlled, and sometimes conquered. There might be times where risks must be taken. There may even be times when we must be prepared to die.

“But soon or late, death comes to us all. I would rather live right, despite my fear and despite danger; I would rather live short, and know I lived well. The horses have taught me this, have taught me to live strong and true. How can any that work with them, not love them despite fear?

“How can I fear them, when they have taught me to live?”

Échen looked at him and said nothing for a long time. At last he spoke:

“Then why do you lie?”

Fastred had no answer.

…

“Thorongil.”

The stable-master stood by the door. Two soldiers flanked him, blocking the opening.

“Thorongil!”

Oh, yes: that was him.

“I am sorry, Master.” Fastred gave a bow for good measure. “I fear my mind was occupied; so much to do, horse dung to shovel… But if you but tell me which horses these good soldiers own, I will fetch them at once.”

The stable-master shook his head. _Damnation!_ He knew there would be trouble. Soldiers always were.

“I am sorry,” the stable-master said. “The corporal did not trust you to keep your word. This was the only way.”

Of course Fastred had not intended to stay, still he could not help but to feel offended that the _Enemy’s_ men thought him a liar.

_Then why do you lie?_ Échen’s voice whispered in his mind. “What do you mean?” he asked, but the stable-master shook his head again.

The two soldiers stepped forward and grabbed Fastred, and a third stepped into the doorway, taking their place there. Chains swung from his good hand, curling and looping between his fingers.

“There is only one way to keep a stray dog in place,” the corporal said.

…

Nightfall came, and Fastred had still not found any answer to Échen’s question.

It might have been because he had so many other questions on his mind. Like whether Bádon and Echil would come soon. Or what they would have to do to overpower the stable-master and the boys. How they would avoid detection by the guards before the rebels drew them off. Whether they might be here soon. And how in the name of _Béma_ he would get free from the collar that kept him chained like a dog!

That last question was, he had to admit, the most pressing.

…

Éomer followed behind Aduiar. He kept his head down, and hoped to luck. Both Húrin and Fastred had been right; it was too risky for _him_ to accompany Aduiar. Húrin should have been here, or Bergil. Probably Húrin. The only one that could recognize Húrin was in no condition to do so. At least Éomer did not think so. He risked a glance.

Several people stood between them and the Master of Isengard. _He_ was not the greatest threat though. Ten years ago, he had not paid attention to Éomer. Ten years ago, Éomer had been deemed of little consequence. Ten years ago, the Eye had not been on him.

Éomer hoped that little would change in that now.

The other two were partly hidden by the throng of people. He could catch a glimpse of them every once and again, but it was not until Aduiar was close enough to greet Isengard that Éomer could see them clearer.

Faramir’s face showed nothing, but his eyes… his eyes…

_Whatever shall I tell Éowyn_ , Éomer thought. _Not this. Not this…_

His eyes were broken.

…

“I do not believe you.”

“What is it that you do not believe?”

“You do not lie well enough, Lord of horses.”

Was it amusement that crossed King Éomer’s face? Húrin shook his head. “You should not have gone. How could you think you would not be recognised in that crowd?”

“Ah, but I was not,” Éomer answered. And, yes, that _was_ amusement in his face. Húrin sighed.

“What makes you so sure that the Steward did not know you?”

That turned Éomer grave.

“I am not,” he answered. “But if he did, he did not give me away. I would not sit here if he had.”

“You saw him close. You said he was broken. How do you know he will not strike later? Have us all taken together to win the favour of his Master?”

“It is possible,” Aduiar pointed out. “Such games are not uncommon. The Faithful have suffered before, thinking themselves to be safe because some lord would rather wait until they could benefit better from their arrest.”

Húrin stood.

“We must leave this house now,” he said. “Before Faramir strikes.”

“If he means to strike. I do not think he will.” Éomer held up his hand before Húrin could speak. “I know your concern, Húrin. You have voiced it clearly enough.”

“You said he was broken.”

“Like a horse can be broken by a harsh hand. It will make it obey, but not make it faithful to the one that broke it.”

Húrin hesitated. “You know the Steward better than me.”

“He is the father of my sister-son.”

“Do not let it blind you! A broken horse may turn on all men, not just his Master.”

“What would you have us do? Abandon our plans? Stay hidden here until the celebrations are over and he is taken back to the Dark Land?”

That silenced Húrin. He bowed his head. They had few options left but to abandon their plan, or follow it with all the risks. He did not need to answer; Éomer knew too well what he would say. Húrin said it anyway.

“No.”

They rested the last, few hours before sunset. The company that had come with Éomer king fell asleep quickly. The last ten years had taught them that; to fall asleep quickly and lightly at need. Some of them had mastered the art even earlier. Only Ingold had trouble falling asleep.

The City was still holding its breath, unnaturally quiet and tense. Ingold could feel the silence walk through the streets, move up the levels of the City: a shadow of the procession that had walked there earlier. A ghostly memory on the very stones. The more he listened, the more he could feel it, hear the un-sound of the wheels and feel the vibrations of the soundless beat of drums, the silence of them thrown between the walls and facades of the houses. Building in agitation as it crept closer.

It brought memories in its wake, images burned into the mind. They would not be wiped out.

The King’s face in that short, fleeting moment he had seen it; pale, thin, his eyes closed in pain, or against the light. He had coughed, once, as the cart rocked, deep from the lungs, and it had brought up blood to stain his lips.

Outside, the shadows lengthened and the ghostly silence crept into the minds, and dreams, of the sleepers too.

Éomer lay on the bench, muttering sounds that could have been words. Seeing cold, snow-clad fields. Feeling cold, mute stone steal across flesh.

Somewhere a string twanged and broke. Startled, Éomer sat up.

“He could not speak.” 


	22. Point of No Return

The tension and silence broke at nightfall, while the light of Anor still lingered in the West before she left the world. Those who had kept watch, and whose eyes were sharp, later swore that just before the riots began, they had seen the lonely figure of the King raise his head where he still hung at the Keel, high above the City. A sign to those still Faithful.

Others claimed the riots did not begin until after the soldiers dragged the King away.

But all accounts agree that the unrest began at dusk. Fights broke out at the lower Circles of the City, targeting the guardhouses and the watch on the walls. The Faithful attacked the Great Gate and the guardhouse there, but the number of soldiers was too great for the rebels to overpower. Other guardhouses had fewer guards, and at the third Circle, the Faithful overran one of the prisons and took it. The guards fell fighting, or were locked into their own cells. With the weapons taken from the unlucky soldiers, the Faithful were able to hold that prison for more than a day and their valour did much to increase the chaos that followed.

When it became clear that the rebellion could not be contained by the soldiers within each Circle, the gates between the Circles were opened to allow reinforcements to move freely where they were needed.  Soon the streets rang with the sound of running feet and the lower Circles were on fire. Orders from the Citadel came swiftly: the rebellion should be quenched with deadly force, but the leaders taken alive. The number of soldiers was doubled on the prisons at the fourth and sixth Circles, though the riots did not reach beyond the fourth gate until the night paled towards dawn. The captured rebels were brought there; the fights never reached the sixth Circle, and the prison on the fourth held against all attacks.

Outside the City, the unrest spread too, and there was fighting along the south wall. Many joined the fight once it started, and the rebels quickly outnumbered the soldiers. Also, the orc-army was slow to react, and the people overran the guards and attacked the walls and Gates themselves. Nearly they succeeded in taking the Gate, but for all their fervour, they could not break it. Most of the guards trapped outside were slain – some ripped apart by the angry mob – by the time the orcs arrived.

Éomer could not have guessed how their distraction would spread; it grew as with a life of its own, fired by the fury of a people driven beyond bearing.

But when Éomer left the house, that fire had not yet grown beyond the plans of the Faithful. Shortly after the first sounds of unrest they gathered in the small courtyard, listening for sounds of movement in the streets. It was quiet still. The riots were to be kept at the first and second Circles, and never reach beyond the third level; that was their plan. Little could they foresee how the riots would develop during the night.

“We should spread out,” Húrin said. “Hide in what shadows and doorways there are.”

“You know about these things.” Éomer’s voice was dry. Húrin did not answer.

Éomer turned to the group. “I want Bergil in point,” he ordered. “With Aduiar and Borondir. Húrin and Bragloth take the rear, Ingold with me. If the gate is open and unguarded, go through. We will meet on the other side; I want us to gather once on each level to know our progress.”

“And if any should fall behind?” Bragloth stood in the shadows, a dark shape hardly seen. He had spoken little since the day before.

“You and Húrin will have to pick us up,” Éomer answered.

“Lord…”

Éomer shook his head. “Do not fall behind. We cannot turn back, and I am loath to leave any in the City.”

“We will see to it,” Húrin said. “But should any find himself unable to rejoin the group, then draw the soldiers away. Lead them down the Circles and join the Faithful, if possible. Or hide and wait. Once the enemy finds the King gone, they will give pursuit; the City will for a time be left in disarray, and with few soldiers. Escape might be possible then.”

“We cannot know,” Éomer replied. “Do not let it happen.”

None replied to his last command. Ten years had taught them better. With no more words they slipped off, small groups moving from shadow to shadow while the dusk darkened to night.

The first group of soldiers crossed their path before they had reached the first gate. Éomer could not see the others, but he heard the soldiers and dragged Ingold into the shelter of a dark alley. The company counted twenty men, all Haradrim. They ran four abreast – their feet beating in time as if they were one – but with no great haste; the fights were still few, easily contained. Or so the enemy thought.

Éomer waited until the sound had died down, then tapped Ingold’s arm, and they moved on.

No guards stood before the first gate, but four men patrolled the walls. Éomer could see the movement when they turned, and the glimmer of reflected starlight on their armour. Underneath the wall, three men crouched in the shadows. The guards turned and moved away from the gate, and for a moment, their backs were turned.

“Come.”

The command was more breath than voice, but Ingold followed. As Éomer ran for the cover of the shadowed wall, the other three slipped past the gate.

Good. The first group would be able to move on, should the rest fail.

Up on the wall, the guards turned. Éomer pressed against the stone. It was hard and cold against his back. Cold seeped through the fabric of his sleeve. He did not move. He listened to the footsteps above, drawing closer, stopping, moving on. He had to trust his ears; he could not risk to be seen.

Now! Now was the time.

He tapped Ingold’s shoulder. Quick as shadows flee before the flame, they moved. Darting past the gate, and further on, seeking shades and shelter, merging with the darkest of the shadows.

No sound.

No sound. The guards continued with their watch, walking back and forth upon the walls around the gate. Éomer could see them now. Watched them stride, meet, stop, and turn, and start their rounds over.

“Sire.”

Borondir was there.

“Further ahead is an abandoned house,” he said. “We can gather in the garden there. Bergil will wait outside; you cannot miss it. Go, and I will bring the others.”

They went.

Dark, empty windows and a crumbled wall. More like the entrance to the Paths of the Dead than a place that had once been a home, the house hovered at the end of the small street. It was built close to the wall separating them from the sixth circle. Éomer looked up. The wall was too high. Even if they climbed the roof, they would not reach the top. They would have to risk the next gate.

“Sire.”

It was Bergil this time, beckoning them from the opening of the crumbled wall.

_Opening?_ Éomer though. He struggled up the wall; crumbled though it was, the climb was not easy. _This wall never had an opening; the Men of Stoningland are better masons than to make an opening this difficult to pass._ Perhaps it had been damaged in the War, and never rebuilt.

The garden inside had withered and died years before. A tree stood by the crumbled wall, the only thing still alive. Its canopy spread across the open space, stretching from the living rock, across the garden, over the top of the wall, and into the street from whence they came. Too early for leaves, the branches still shielded them from any eyes above.

Aduiar waited at the trunk.

No words were spoken while they waited for Húrin and Bragloth. Éomer used the time to watch for guards on the wall above. He could neither see nor hear any; mayhap none were posted there. The gate was on the other side of the spur; short of climbing the wall, none could enter the sixth level on this side of the tunnel. With the wall too high to climb, why waste men to guard?

Heavy breathing and the sound of shifting rock heralded the arrival of Borondir. Bragloth followed him, and Húrin climbed into the garden as the last. All, even Bergil, gathered by the trunk of the tree.

“Problems?”

“None,” Húrin answered. “Apart from the one patrol, we have met no other soldiers – yet – and the guards at the gate seemed more intent on watching the lower circles. Either they are too confident, or the fights do not go well for us.”

“That should change,” Aduiar said. “It is early still.”

Húrin nodded. “We should wait until the riots spread; I do not wish to be halfway through the tunnel when we meet the next patrol. In the streets we can hide, but the tunnels offer no hiding places.”

Éomer agreed. “Take Bergil,” he told Húrin, “and keep an eye out. This place is safe for now, but we need to know when it is time to move. We will wait for you here.”

“As you wish.”

“I should go with them,” Bragloth said. “Bergil is still young.”

Éomer stopped him. “Two are enough,” he said. “And Bergil knows these streets.”

“As do I,” Bragloth muttered, but he obeyed.

Húrin and Bergil left. In the sky above, the stars’ light was too weak to light the streets. The tall buildings and the walls loomed in the darkness. It was difficult to see. Or be seen.

Empty. The streets and alleys on the fifth level were empty, as if its people hid in their homes or had joined whatever feast the Master of Isengard had seen fit to have in celebration. Húrin saw no reason to celebrate, save the empty streets. He had thought it would be more difficult to move undetected through the City.

_You have not reached the Chieftain yet_ , he chided himself. _Do not sell the hide until the bear is shot._

A bow would have helped with the shooting. And they had none.

“The road is clear.”

Bergil’s voice cut into his thoughts. Húrin nodded. He threw a glance up at the walls. Nothing. The soldier patrolling the eastern wall was gone.

A whispered “stay” and Húrin hurried across the Road. He kept his head down, and hoped that none would see him. _The problem_ , he thought, _with sneaking through a city at night: it looked suspicious. It is easier to blend into a crowd._ Perhaps even the empty streets were no cause for celebration.

Luck held for him, and he gained the cover of another alley undetected.

…

Fastred did not sleep well.

The soft sound of horses moving in their stalls surrounded him. Usually the fresh smell of hay and the happy silence of horses chewing would ease him. Usually he would find it soothing and it would have helped him sleep.

Not so now.

Now the collar – a collar! As if he were a dog! – the collar rubbed against his neck and stopped him from lying down. Not that he would have if he could, but it still irked him. Pointless, he would have thought, but the gleam in the corporal’s eye had told him why. And warned him not to protest. The collar was humiliating and irksome; the corporal would be happy to make it humiliating and painful.

Aduiar’s mare shifted and moved in the stall beside him. He looked up. Her head was a dark shadow behind the bars. She saw him move, and nickered softly.

“What is it, pretty one?”

Fastred made to rise, but slumped down again. The chain was too short to stand as well.

_Orcfilth!_

“I am sorry,” he told the mare. “Whatever it is you want, it will have to wait. I cannot reach to free myself.”

She snorted, and tried to stick her head between the bars. There was no room; she could only fit part of her muzzle between them. Despite his annoyance, Fastred smiled.

“They would not risk giving you room to injure each other, pretty one. It would lose them money.” And in some cases their lives.

He let his head drop back to rest against the wall and closed his eyes. Since he could do nothing but wait, he should try to sleep. But sleep was slow in coming. The walls of the stall were cold against his back, and the floor, despite the straw, was hard. Too hard. It made his legs go numb, and moving them did not help. He needed to stand and get the blood flowing again. And he could not.

It took time, but in the end he managed a light slumber. And dreamed.

And in his dream he saw familiar snow-clad fields. Saw swirling darkness and maggot-eaten men. Saw green stones and white horses, and he woke with the words of a dead man rigging in his ears.

_“Help him! You are alive.”_

“Fastred! Wake!”

The words were hissed, urgent but low. Bádon crouched down before him.

Fastred blinked at him. He found no words to speak. For a moment he thought he saw maggots worming through his face. No. No, it was not the same man. Bádon looked no more like him, the dead man of his dreams, than he did Húrin. Or Echil.

“Are you hurt?” Bádon asked.

He shook his head.

“Are you sure? You were hard to wake, harder than you should have been, even lying in your bed.”

“How did you get in?”

“Back door,” Bádon answered. “Or should I have said wall? But you did not answer my question.”

“Get me out of this collar, and I will be well.” Fastred had mucked out the stall earlier, but horses and men have different needs, and Fastred needed softer and dryer straw. “The only hurt I have suffered is to my pride, but I cannot say that it will continue that way if I have to stay here longer.”

“Be still, I am trying to …”

Fastred moved not while Bádon tried to get a look at the collar. He sighed: Ranger or no, Bádon would not see much in the dark.

“I do not have the tools to pick the lock,” Bádon said at length. “Nor the skill. You need Echil, or better yet: the captain. Húrin learned the art from a master.”

“I do not care whom any of them learned from,” Fastred snapped. “None of them are here: you are. Get me free!”

“Shh,” Bádon said. “Not too loud. Just hold on.” Bádon rose. “I might be able to unhook the chain. The collar would have to wait, though.”

Fastred sighed. Much as he hated the thing, being free was more important than losing the collar.

“What is going on outside?” he asked. “How late is it?”

“Later than I like,” Bádon answered. “Those soldiers were slow to move. But the riots at the Gate have grown far greater than we hoped for. Lucky for us. If not for the riots, the soldiers would have stayed, or so I deem. They left not long ago, except for that corporal. He is still outside, guarding the stable door. What did you do to merit such dedicated guards?”

“I kept my seat when they did not.”

He could feel Bádon’s laughter through the chain.

“What?”

“Only one of the Rohirrim…” Bádon did not finish the thought. He had found the bolt that held the chain. A few moments, and Fastred was free.

“Finally! Now, what is going on out there?”

Fastred tried to rise, but he was too numb. Bádon offered him a hand, and Fastred took it without a word. He climbed to his feet, and had to hold on to the wall and bars of the stall until the blood returned to his feet and they could hold him. Bádon said nothing, he just helped Fastred untangle the chain and free it from the collar. Feeling and strength returned too slowly for Fastred’s liking, but by the time they had the chain free, he could stand on his own again.

“As I said; the guards left, except for that corporal. He is guarding the door. We must take him out without waking anyone. Echil is outside, keeping an eye on things. The stable-master and the boys are inside, sleeping.”

“They left the horses unguarded?”

“It would seem that way,” Bádon answered. “Perhaps they thought your guards were enough.”

“I had not thought the stable-master would be so careless.”

“It does not matter.” Bádon looped the chain and handed it to Fastred. “I left Echil hiding near the house; if we can take out the guard without noise, he can bar the doors with little trouble. If luck holds, none should even wake.”

“If luck holds.” Fastred snatched his hand away from the bars. “Stop that!” he told the mare. She had been nuzzling at his hand, trying to get him to notice her. “We do not have time, pretty one.” She snorted and scraped the floor with her hoof. Fastred tried to appease her before she made more noise.

“Shh, girl. We need quiet.”

“Perhaps not,” Bádon said. “We need to take out the guard, but the door is barred from the outside and it will be difficult to take him by surprise. If we can make him come in…”

Fastred shook his head. He let the mare nip at his fingers. Her muzzle was rough and strong against his skin, but it kept her somewhat calm. “I don’t think he would come for a horse. He would call for one of the boys, I think, and wake the rest.”

“And if you called?”

…

Éomer kept watch when Bergil returned. Húrin might be able to sneak up on him, but few others would be. Bergil would never try.

“We should go now, sire,” Bergil said. “Two companies have passed, and at the moment it is quiet again; the Road is clear.”

It was the word they had waited for. They left the garden with its withered plants. Bergil led them, and Éomer made sure they all followed. As they left, Bragloth turned at the wall. He stood a moment and looked up on the naked branches of the tree, then he shook his head and turned.

Éomer saw him turn, saw him startle at the realisation that he had been seen. If there had been enough light, he would have seen Bragloth’s face. Would have seen it open and unguarded, and perhaps that would have made a difference. But it was dark, and Éomer did not see.

“Move! We have little time.”

“I know,” Bragloth answered. He moved past Éomer. The king heard the soft words uttered beneath his breath:

“Once I called it home.”

Éomer knew not what to answer, and so he did not acknowledge the words. He followed his men. Bragloth did not turn to look back.

The fifth circle is a mixture of smaller and larger houses. The Road lies towards the wall on the eastern side, and on that side the houses are large, with their backs against the wall. Short, narrow alleys separate them at times, for some have side entrances that do not open into the Road, but can only be entered through hidden gardens or back-doors. These are the doors for the servants and deliveries.

Next to the keel, that great outcrop that separates the City, there is still an open garden with shrubs and trees and green plants, and there one can climb a narrow stair up to the eastern wall. The stairs were made long ago, when first the wall was built, so that soldiers could, in time of war, quickly man the wall.

On the western side, smaller houses lie, two rows thick. There the back-alleys often run side by side with the Road, but from time to time a larger house will block the alleyways, filling all the room between the Road and the tall wall. It was a house such as this that blocked their way.

The house, and their need to split up, made their plans for them.

Éomer waited for his turn to risk the Road. He could barely see the figure hiding in the alley on the other side of the Road; Húrin hid himself as well in the City as he did in the forest. Éomer would not have been able to make him out had he not known that he was there.

The rest of them had already split up and spread out on both sides of the Road. He looked around the corner of the house the blocked their way. It was empty, and the houses were dark.

_Who is watching from within?_ he wondered. _Or do they all hide away, fearing that the soldiers will come for them if they draw their attention? Do they simply not wish to know, because knowing will be too hard?_ Knowing, and not being able to act… it was easier to close eyes and ears. Put it out of mind and never think of it. Húrin had told him as much, a fortnight – was it no longer? – ago.

A movement in the shadow across the Road brought him out of his thoughts. Húrin stepped out in the lighter darkness of the Road and signalled. All was clear.

“Ingold,” Éomer whispered. “Go, I will follow.”

They scuttled across, into the shadows Húrin had disappeared back into.

“Report.”

“Two companies passed before Bergil returned for you,” Húrin said. “The first came from the sixth circle, I think, but the second came from the Citadel.”

“They have sent all the guards they can spare from the other circles.”

It was not a question, but Húrin confirmed it nevertheless. “Yes. There was a burst of trumpets from somewhere below some time before each company passed. More time passed between the second than the first, but even the shortest time should be enough for us to get through the tunnel. If we are in place.”

Éomer nodded. “There should be time then, as long as we do not hear any signal. Unless guards have been placed within the tunnel itself.”

“Any guards would be on the other side; there are none on this, and to have guards within the tunnel is impractical. They would block the Road for reinforcements.”  A movement on the edge of their vision interrupted Húrin, and when they turned to see, Bragloth slipped into view on the other side of the Road.

“Hurry,” he said. “Before the guard turns at the gate. Borondir is waiting.”

They hurried. Past dark houses to the next alley where Borondir lurked in new shadows. Another wait, and Éomer moved on alone for the last stretch before the tunnel. He found shelter beneath the shrubs in the garden between the eastern wall and the Road. He heard no shouts from the wall, but he still lay unmoving for a long time, or so it seemed to him, heart beating, the cold dampness from the earth seeping into his cloak.

He had felt eyes on him, that short moment when he crossed the open space between the shadow of the house and the shadows of the garden.

…

”Guard!”

Nothing happened.

“Guard!”

Again nothing. Fastred shot a glance at Bádon, but he only shook his head. Either the corporal wanted to torment him by not answering any calls, or he no longer wanted an excuse to make his life more painful.

Fastred did not think he had misread him earlier. The first, then.

Bádon signed to him to call again. Well, third time lucky, was that not the saying?

“Guard!”

The mare kicked the wall this time, as if she wanted to help. And it did help:

A rustle of keys, angry words muffled by the door, and it swung open.

“I would think a stable-hand would know better than to upset the horses.” The corporal did not smirk, or leer, or sound anything other than annoyed to be disturbed. “And you are in enough trouble as it is.”

He stepped through the door, his eyes on Fastred, and Bádon moved. Before the corporal could act, before he could see anything but a movement out of the corner of his eye, Bádon caught him with an arm across his throat. He struggled. Choked sounds slipped past his lips, but before Fastred reached them, it was over. Bádon loosed his grip and the corporal slid to the ground.

“Échen!”

Bádon turned to see the boy standing frozen right outside the stable-door.

“Échen,” Fastred repeated.  He made to say more, but found that he did not know what to say. Bádon was quick, though. He was out the door and dragged the boy inside before he could run.

“Échen,” Fastred said. “Why are you here?”

“You lied,” Échen replied. “Why did you lie?”

“I…” Fastred looked to Bádon but the ranger offered him no help. At least the boy was brave.

“Was this why you came?” Échen asked. “To steal?”

“We are not here to steal, we are only taking our own horses. We need them. We…” Fastred did not know what to do; they were running out of time. He looked to Bádon again, but again the ranger offered little help.

“How much do you trust him?” Bádon asked. “We need to go, and soon. Echil should have taken the opportunity to lock the others up by now, but…”

They could not risk the boy raising the alarm, or letting the rest out the moment they left. Fastred did not need for him to say it. Échen had grown quiet, his eyes locked on the body of the corporal. He too, it seemed, understood.

“Leave him to me,” Fastred said. “Go help Echil instead. You can bring out the tack and begin to saddle the horses.”

Bádon handed – there was no other word for it, he handed Échen over to Fastred and went to help Echil secure the doors. Or horses. Or whatever Echil might need help with. And left Fastred holding Échen’s arm, and the boy staring at the dead corporal. Silent. Unmoving.

Béma!

Fastred loosened his grip. “Come,” he said. His voice, soft and full of sorrow, tugged on the boy. Coaxed him out and away. Away from the dead man lying on the ground.

“You killed him.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Fastred did not answer. “I need your help,” he said instead.

“Or you will kill me?”

“No.” He steered Échen away from the body, over to the stall where he had been chained. The collar was still around his neck and the boy’s eyes were drawn to it instead. “This is important,” he said. “We need the horses, and we need to be far away when the soldiers find out.”

“Because you are thieves,” Échen said. “I thought you wanted to help. You sounded like you wanted to help.”

“I do,” Fastred said. “And I am. Just not…” How to explain to a boy? “Listen, have you heard of the Faithful?”

Échen nodded. “Everyone has.” He shrugged. “The soldiers are always searching for them, even though the magistrates always say they don’t exist. And that they are rebels and spies that want to overthrow the King. I always thought it dumb to search for someone that did not exist.”

Fastred smiled. The boy was not half stupid. “You are right. We do exist, and we do not want to overthrow your king.”

“Our King.” Échen picked up on that.

“Your. I am not a man of Gondor, I am of the Eorlingas.”

“All of you? Then why are you here?”

He did not have time for all these questions. He looked at the boy, and found himself answering even so. “Some of us. Some are from Gondor, and some from the North. We are here to help. Do you remember what they said about your king today?”

Échen nodded. “They whipped him. Until he bled.” His voice was small, lost.

“Yes,” Fastred said. Bleeding, crawling, rotting away. He shook his head, as if it could dislodge the images of his dreams. “They did. And we will stop them from doing it, ever again.” Or die trying. “That is why we need the horses; to rescue him.”

Échen looked at him before he answered.

“I’ll help.”

…

Raw, damp earth. It smells of mud and clay: cold and clean and mineral. Naked twigs weaving around each other, drawing unknown patterns on the sky. The night is dark over the White City. The sound of fighting is distant, clear but far-off, and the night-air is chilly with the frost of early spring.

Éomer let out his breath. Borondir was safely across the Road; they were almost ready. He rolled from under the bushes and pushed himself up into the shadow of the rock. No sound or alarm had been sounded, and he slipped within sight of Borondir and signed to him:

_Go!_

He slipped back into the shadow. A hand touched the wall, it steadied him; the ground was uneven. Smooth, polished stone, cold as glass against the tips of his fingers. The twigs around him pricked the skin on his neck, his hands, his face. Borondir was inside the tunnel now; Éomer saw the shadows of Aduiar and Bergil near the mouth, waiting to follow. A soft breeze rustled the bare branches, a twig snapped under his foot.

_Go!_

They followed. Éomer saw them enter the tunnel; two shadows swallowed into the stone. The braches rustled in the wind again. Another twig snapped.

No.

There was no wind. And he had not moved.

Before he could turn, Éomer felt the pricking of a blade against his skin and the guard said:

“Do not move.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short reminder: this is but the first part of a larger series.


	23. To Hope's End I Rode

Éomer obeyed. He stiffened, but he did not move. A hand gripped his hair, and he could feel the blade move around his neck until it came to rest against his throat. He swallowed down the urge to fight, to move. The blade pressed closer, too dull to cut him yet, but Éomer knew that it would. If the guard pressed harder.

“You are in violation of the curfew,” the guard said. He did not raise his voice, and they were still covered by shadows. “And no innocent man crawls in the shadows as you do. Are you alone, or are you waiting for your rebel friends?”

Éomer did not answer, and the blade pressed closer. “Answer!” the guard demanded, but no answer came. Skin broke. A trickle of blood ran down Éomer’s neck. The guard pulled on his hair and Éomer’s hands flew up before he could think about it.

“I said: don’t move!”

Éomer almost stumbled, but he regained his balance. The guard repeated his demand: “Answer! Are you alone or not?”

Éomer did not answer, but instead of tightening the grip – as he expected – the hands that held him fell away, and he heard another voice answer:

“Not alone.”

Éomer spun around and saw the guard stumble forward and fall to his knees, calling out for help. Behind him was the shadow of another man. He hesitated, but Éomer did not; he wrested the knife from the guard’s hand and silenced him. Then he turned to his rescuer.

The shadow stepped into a lighter patch, and Éomer knew him; it was the young man they had met on the road: Hardang, whom Aduiar had befriended.

“More guards will be here shortly.” Éomer paused. They could already hear the sound of running feet. “You should hide.” A thousand things to say, to ask, but no time. He knelt by the dead man and took his sword. Hardang did not move away.

“You should hide,” Éomer repeated.

Hardang shook his head. “You hide,” he said. “I would not have my deed be in vain.”

“Why?”

“You serve the mayor Aduiar.”

“Not really,” Éomer answered. “More the other way around.”

Hardang laughed softly. “Then more is the luck. Hide. The guards will see me, and not look further.”

“Why?”

“The mayor is a good man, even if he should not be – being a mayor. Being one of _them_. But he is. When I saw the guard, I found that I could not look away. Not after today.”

“I should not accept your offer,” Éomer said. “I should have you hide; if you are caught, you will suffer.”

“I know,” Hardang replied. “I am not so young, nor so sheltered. Hide: the guards are near.”

But it was too late. Éomer heard the men coming up behind him. He spun around, sword ready, and the men halted. They were only two, and behind them he could see Ingold drawing close. One of the men stepped closer, and he recognised Aduiar.

“We heard the shouts,” Aduiar said. “And I deemed the risk of meeting anyone in the tunnel too high. I hope Borondir reached the end before anyone entered. More soldiers will be here soon. Sire?” He left the question unspoken.

“We will not be able to avoid them,” Éomer said. “We are too many to hide, and they will find the body.”

“Some of us must,” Aduiar said. “You and Bergil are most vital; you hide, and we will draw them off.”

“All are needed.” But Éomer could think of no other way. Already they could hear the shouts of the guards, real this time, echoing in the tunnel.

“Your errand?” Hardang stepped forward and injected himself in their deliberation. “If you don’t mind me asking: is the fighting in the lower levels connected to it?”

“Yes. But this is not the time to discuss it.”

“Then scatter and hide while there is time. Something is afoot, I felt it earlier, and I would have a part in it.”

“We cannot tell you,” Aduiar said. “But if you live, you will know by morning.”

“That is enough,” the young man said. Aduiar nodded, and grabbed Éomer. He forced him away from the dead guard, into the deeper shadows, down under the bushes. They had no time to see what Bergil and Ingold did, but any sound of movement had died away when the guards arrived.

…

Húrin was the only one to stay where he was when the trouble began. Bragloth drew back into the alley, into the dark, to take the back-alley that Aduiar and Bergil had followed before. Ingold held still for a while, but when he saw people emerging from the tunnel, he too broke off and ran towards Éomer.

Húrin wanted to run. Wanted to find out what had happened. Wanted know if Éomer king and the others were safe. Wanted to do something, to help. And knew he could do nothing if they were not, and he too was captured. And so he was a good Ranger, and stayed. And waited and watched. And listened.

_Ai Chieftain! Will you think it worth this?_

It did not matter: Húrin did, the others did, even if the Chieftain might not, and that made him stay.

More running, more shouts. Húrin pressed against the wall of the house and risked a glance up the Road. At first he could not see, only hear a scuffle, then more shouts, and the fighting spilled out into the street where he could. It was dark, too dark, but he could sense several men, locked in struggle. Out from the alley by the tunnel a man broke into the fight, barrelling into the group. It fell apart, and two men broke off and ran down the Road, towards Húrin. The rest pursued.

Húrin snapped his head back and withdrew into the shadow. The two men passed him, running hard, with four guards close behind. One of the men was young, and in the dark Húrin did not know him. But he knew the other.

Bragloth.

Húrin stayed. Still a good Ranger. Hiding. Waiting. Watching. Until the guards had passed by. Until they were out of sight. Out of hearing. Waited until he heard shutters open, and close.

Then he moved. _Then he moved_. Then he slowly moved out of hiding, out of the shadow; out to where he could see that the Road was empty.

Then he moved. Then he ran. Silently and swiftly, he ran towards the tunnel, and the garden beside.

One man dead. The guard, lying abandoned between shadow and pale light, with his throat cut. Húrin bent to see if his weapons had been abandoned as well. They had not.

A rustle of twigs, and Húrin could breathe.

“Here.” Éomer held out a knife to him. He had a sword strapped to his side; the guard’s, Húrin guessed. Behind him stood Aduiar and Ingold. Bergil. Húrin counted them in his mind. Bragloth gone, that left…

“Borondir?” he asked. He took the proffered knife and stood.

“He must have made it through,” Aduiar answered. “Or we would have heard.”

“Then we should hasten, before more guards are called for.” Húrin _had_ questions, but they could wait.

Éomer hesitated. “Bragloth,” he said.

“He will try to reach the lower levels, and get lost in the fighting. We must leave him, or our purpose.” Húrin would not turn back.

Éomer nodded. “I do not like it,” he said, but he walked past Húrin and they followed him, into the tunnel. Into the darkness. Up the Road, towards their goal. Once decided, he did not look back.

…

With Échen’s help, they had been able to ready the horses quickly. It also made Fastred’s task harder. Bádon had offered, but Fastred could not let him do it.

“You have to stay here.”

Échen did not cry, and Fastred did not know if that made it easier or harder.

“You can’t leave me here. Not now. I helped.” He did not say: _they will kill me for it._ He did not need to. “I want to go with you.”

“It is too dangerous.”

“You are going,” Échen pointed out, with the maddening reasoning of children.

“It is not the same, and while I know that staying here is dangerous too, it is less so. The Enemy will hunt us.”

“Why do you try if you don’t think you will make it?” That same, childish way of thinking. If only he were not right.

“I spoke against it,” Fastred admitted. “I deemed the risk too high. It was not my call, but this is: you must stay. Not only for your own safety, but for ours. It will be difficult enough to avoid capture with your king wounded, and we are one horse short as it is. With you to worry about as well, it will be even harder.” He looked at the boy. “Échen…”

Échen looked down. “I’ll stay,” he muttered. “But…“ He looked up at Fastred.  “What do I do when the soldiers come? What do I tell them?”

Fastred hesitated.

“You don’t know.”

Fastred shook his head. “I do know,” he said. “I just do not like it. And I do not think you will either. But it will be the safest way for you.” He paused a moment. “I will tie you. When you are found, you can tell them that we surprised you. The corporal was already dead, and we overpowered you. They will believe you, and it will be the truth. But it will be best if I tie you here, and leave the corporal where he is. Will you…?”

It was Échen’s turn to hesitate. “Can you not put him somewhere else? Or me?” He swallowed. “I came out because I could not sleep there, inside. With…”

With the dead boy. Fastred nodded. “Come. I thought it would better for you to be inside, but if you would rather stay outside… The night is cold though, are your clothes warm enough?”

“Yes.” The answer came a little too quick, but Fastred overlooked it. He led the mare out, and Échen followed him. Echil and Bádon waited for him by the pens.

“Fastred,” Bádon began. “You were going to talk to the boy.”

“I did. He is staying here. Outside.”

Bádon shrugged. He took the reins from Fastred.

Échen sat down by the fence and let Fastred loop rope around his hands and legs.

“They are too loose,” he said. “I can just slip free.”

“Are you complaining?” The snow was gone – if any snow had fallen this far south – but the earth was damp. Fastred wanted to find a cloak or a blanket for the boy to sit on, but none would believe that a horse-thief would care. He did not want the ropes to cause discomfort as well. “Just tell them that you have managed to work them loose.”

Échen looked at him. Even in the dark Fastred could feel him looking.  As if he did not even have half a wit.

“They would not believe it.”

“The boy is right,” Bádon cut in. “There won’t be any marks on him with ropes that loose.”

“Right.” He tightened the ropes. A little. “Is that better? They are not too tight?”

The boy nodded, but Fastred still let one finger run between ropes and skin, checking just to be sure.

“Thorongil?”

He heard movement behind him, the rustle of clothes and shifting feet, but he ignored it. The Rangers could wait a few moments more. They, it seemed, disagreed.

“Thorongil?” Bádon asked. There was a… note… in his voice which Fastred could not construe, but it put him in mind of Húrin’s expression when he heard him give that name. He ignored him, and answered Échen.

“Yes?”

Bádon was not that easily ignored.

“Thorongil?” he repeated. “You gave your name as ‘Thorongil’ and they let it pass?”

“It was the only one I could think of at the time, and why would it not pass? It is the right language, and it is not as if they would mistake me for a man that is long dead. If he is even remembered. Just because my father liked to tell stories of him,” and Fastred liked to listen, “does not mean he would be remembered outside the Mark after so many years.”

Bádon made a… noise.

“What?”

“Húrin did not tell you?” Mirth… anger… _something_ – tinged his voice.

“He gave me a look.” Fastred sighed. “Much like your silence. I know it might not be the best choice, but no harm came, and a long-dead forgotten man…”

“Not forgotten,” Échen said.

“Nor dead,” Bádon muttered. “If luck holds.”

Fastred could hear the silent question in the boy’s thoughts, the same that was on his tongue, but Bádon cut off any further explanations.

“No time for stories, we must ride. One day you might both hear the tale in full, from one that knows it better than any.”

They did not then know that only one of them would.

Fastred turned to Échen. “Take this,” he said. He put a hoof-pick into the boy’s hands. The metal was cold between them, and wet with dew. “Use it to work on the ropes; it should not take too long for you to get free. Just give us time; wait until we have been gone a while.”

“I will.”

Fastred clasped his hands. “Thank you.” Nothing more to say. He rose and moved away. The other two opened the pen where the loose horses stood. Fastred took Firefoot’s reins from Bádon, leaving the Ranger to take the mare. Echil mounted Fastred’s own mare and they let him lead the way. The geldings followed her, for now.

Fastred and Bádon followed the small herd, keeping them together.

…

They met no other guards or reinforcements, not even at the last gate. This worried Éomer.

“Should we not praise our luck?” Ingold asked. “Not worry that our task is too easy? The gate is open and unguarded, why hesitate?”

“Why is it unguarded?” Éomer replied. “When no other gate has been, and with rebellion on the lower levels? I fear a trap.”

“To what purpose? They cannot know our plans.”

“They may have guessed that the fighting aims at freeing the King,” Éomer said.

“I do not know, but if there is a trap here, why have the other gates guarded? It makes little sense.”

“You are right, and I would think as you had not my heart warned me that something is wrong. I do not know what.”

“Shall we turn back, then?”

Éomer took one more look at the gate. It lay abandoned, a dark hole with no movement in the shadows of its doors, and no movement on the walls above. He could not even feel any eyes watching, as he had earlier. He turned to look back down the Road. It was as empty as the road ahead. Aduiar and Bergil were already past the Gate, and they had heard no disturbance.

“No,” he answered. “Something feels wrong, but we cannot, will not, turn back now. Let us go.”

They encountered no trap behind the gate; saw no sentries by the stables and the prison beside it. The sixth circle might as well have been dead. The air was silent, pressing down on them. It was a feeling Éomer had not felt often, but he had felt it recently.

“The _dwimmerlaik_ ,” he whispered. “It must be near.”

“The horses are too quiet,” Ingold replied. And he was right. The stable was quiet, and the horses had been too tense earlier to be that quiet now.

“Let us find Damrod, and shelter from hidden eyes.” Just because he could not feel them, did not mean they were not there.

Ingold nodded. “Lead, and I will follow; I have not been this far up in ten years, and only once then.”  But Éomer had but begun to move when he felt Ingold’s hand on his shoulder, holding him back.

“Hide, lord,” he whispered. “There is movement up ahead. Your misgiving might come true.”

They ducked into the shadow of the House of Healing. Ingold pointed up ahead, but if there had been movement there before, they could see nothing now. They waited, but nothing more could be seen. Hours, it seemed to Éomer, went by while they waited, but it could not have been that long before Húrin and Borondir caught up with them.

“Why do you linger?” Húrin asked.

“I fear some trap.” Éomer’s voice barely carried beyond his own hearing. Húrin stood close, pressed up against the wall with Éomer. “It is too silent, too easy, and it feels like the _dwimmerlaik_ is near. Ingold saw movement ahead, but nothing more has come of it.”

“I thought that _thing_ left,” Borondir said. “We saw it fly.”

“We saw the winged beast leave,” Húrin corrected. “It was not possible to see if it had any rider. I thought it left as well, but I too feel something that I can only guess is its presence. For some reason it seems as if it can mute the terror it spreads. I did not know that it could do that.

“No matter. It is too late to turn back – unless you wish to join with Bragloth. It might prove difficult to escape the City, and I have no wish to witness what spectacle they will make of the Chieftain tomorrow. They cannot know our plan, and so if there is a trap it will not be where we will be. The prison on this level seems unguarded; mayhap the trap is there. Or they expect us to brave the entrance to the Citadel and the last tunnel.

“I will go and seek out Damrod, thus the danger will be to me, and we will soon know if it is safe to continue. Let it be quiet and easy; better for us, since we will use an entrance they have no knowledge of.”

“I would not be so sure it is unknown,” Éomer said. “But you are right. Go. We will watch for your signal.”

…

Nothing much happened on the ride.

Fastred herded the horses with ease, and they neither saw nor heard any pursuit. Fastred did not know whether he should be grateful or concerned by that, but Bádon waved away his questions.

“The guards and soldiers have enough to worry about,” he said. “And the stable-master will not get out on his own, should he even be awake. As long as that boy does not free them too early…”

“He will not.” Of that Fastred was sure.

“Then I would be more worried that the horses should escape. Herding them has so far been easier than I feared.”

“ _You_ have herded nothing, Master Ranger,” Fastred said. “ _I_ have herded horses. And you had no reason to fear; I herded horses before I walked.”

Bádon laughed. “Then our only concern is whether the others succeed or not. Both the captain and king Éomer are strong-willed men; I have yet to see them fail when they have decided on a purpose.”

“’Stubborn’ I will grant,” Fastred muttered. “Enough to force their will most times. But all Men fail; the Dúnedain should know that.”

Bádon sobered, yet he replied: “We both know it, and do not, Master Rider. Our kingdom failed, but our kings remained. We dwindled, but the blood remained. Our numbers shrank, but each man grew strong. And we find ourselves the only people that now are not under the Shadow’s sway.”

“Yet your Chieftain is the Hostage of Mordor.”

“True.”

Bádon fell silent for a while. Fastred kept his mind on the horses. They followed Echil willingly, but Firefoot was not yet warm and he would rather not have to ask the stallion for any swift manoeuvres. Better to head off any problems before they arose. When Bádon spoke again, Fastred had almost forgotten what they had been speaking of.

“We counted him for lost,” Bádon said. “It was easier. And we have always been good at keeping secrets; the Enemy has not been able to find enough of us to use him against us, as he has in Gondor. And we know too well that no gain can be had in bowing to the Shadow. The Chieftain would not wish it, and that we know as well.

“And now, now he will be hostage no longer. I can not but believe it. Have faith, Master Rider,” he turned to Fastred and even in the darkness Fastred sensed his smile. “Have faith in your king, if you have none in mine.”

…

The closer he came to the Citadel, the stronger the feeling grew. Fear. Stark, bleak fear. Numb, heavy fear curling in the gut, knotting the insides until it became pain. Drenching, draining fear that made the mind beg to live.

Beside him, Bergil shook, and Ingold hesitated at each step. Why did men desire command? Oh, for the relief of turning to another for strength!

Éomer king trusted to the darkness to hide his pallor. “Come,” he said. “We are close.” And he went towards the fear. His voice did not waver. His steps were firm, his shoulders broad. He showed no fear, and they followed.

_They followed_. Across the street, into the shadows on the other side. Into the shelter of the narrow alley, and the vines and trees growing close to the wall of rock that surrounded the last circle and the Citadel. To where Húrin and Aduiar waited with Damrod.

They did not speak, not so near the entrance. Húrin led them further into the tunnel while Damrod hid in the entrance. Not too far, and not too short, they walked until they stopped. Their tunnel had not yet reached the dungeons, but the fear grew stronger, and the darkness heavier.

They stood still and listened. There was no sound but their breath, and the shuffling of their feet. No sound, until they heard footsteps behind them.

_Damrod_ , Éomer told himself. _It is only Damrod_. But in the silence and the darkness and the fear around them, he did not believe it. His hand clutched the stolen sword and he wished for his own Gúthwinë. _We will draw swords together again_ , he promised. As if he could make it happen by willing it to be.

Then the footsteps arrived, with Damrod, and the fear drew back a little.

“Here we are between,” Damrod said. “Halfway through. This is the safest place to confer.”

“Is there need for more debate?” Ingold asked. “We know why we are here.”

“Plans are always subject to change,” Aduiar said. “And already ours must, to some degree, change. Bragloth is, for now, lost to us.”

“What happened?”

“We had a spot of trouble…”

“ _I_ found trouble, Aduiar,” Éomer said. “I was seen by a guard; Bragloth helped draw the guards away. We do not know more, but he was alive last we saw him. It is to be hoped that he will evade the guards and hide until he can escape the City.”

“He knows what to do,” Húrin assured. “And our plans do not depend on numbers.”

“True,” Damrod said. “The Faithful will do what they can for Bragloth; he is known to us. But for our plans… how can we hope they will bear fruit? Or do you not feel the Enemy’s servant?”

“We do,” Éomer answered. “It is close, and somehow worse than earlier today. I almost wish my sister were here, or Master Holdwine. The _dwimmerlaik_ might fear _them_.”

“Can we not take the King out by this way, since the Nazgûl is in the Citadel?” Aduiar asked. “Or do you wish to turn back now?”

“No,” Húrin said. “If all the Nine had been gathered, I would still go on. He is my Chieftain, and has been so for more years than any of you have lived.”

“There are only eight.”

Húrin glared at Aduiar. “There is only one above.”

“I do not think so.” Éomer spoke before the debate worsened. “Either there is more than one, or it is not in the Citadel above. It is below, in the dungeons.”

None answered that. None spoke. The fear grew in the silence and the dark, until Éomer could feel it against his skin, taste it in the air. At length Aduiar spoke. His voice was steady, and light in the heavy darkness, as if he did not feel the same fear that hammered against Éomer’s brow.

“If the Nazgûl indeed is in the dungeons, then there are good tidings among the bad. The King must be held here; I can think of no other reason for its presence.”

“Did not Golwen confirm that the King would be held here?” Damrod asked.

“He did, but he could have been wrong, or the King might have been moved later. The mere suspicion against any of the servants – even the lowest slave – could have caused a change, and Golwen would have no way to warn us.” Aduiar stated all the objections Éomer would have liked to hear _before_ they had come this far.

“Why did you not speak earlier?” Éomer was sharp, tense. The fear leaked out, and he could not keep it from turning into anger at Aduiar. Aduiar, who did not seem to mind. Aduiar, who spoke words that only heightened their doubt.

“There would have been little purpose; try we must, and the chance was worth the risk, I deemed.” Aduiar sighed. “Now, I think, it is best to wait. The riots should peak, and draw the Nazgûl away.”

“That would need more rebels than the Faithful count,” Damrod said. “I do not think it will avail much to wait.”

“It is better than to confront the wraith. Let us wait a while; it will do no harm, and if Aduiar is right…” Éomer did not finish. They understood him all the same.

None among them knew how wise that decision would prove to be. None of them had guessed the fire that had been ignited in the lower circles, or the heights to which the riots would rise before they were struck down. They did not know that even as they waited, closer to their goal than ever, the men fought so hard that the Gate was close to being overrun; attacked both from within and without the City.

The guards on the Gate and the outer walls blew their trumpets, calling for help. Again and again they called, until their leaders, sitting in safety high above in the Citadel, saw that more men were needed. More than they could send, and keep the Citadel safe, should their men fail.

Great shouts were heard from the camp of the orcs then, and a shadow rose from the tower. The sound carried across the fields, even far enough to be heard at the foot of the mountain where three men, and a small herd of horses, had stopped.

The two Rangers had used the day well. A pen held their own two horses, and there was room for more. They had even made a smaller pen close by, to separate them as needed.

“You could almost have been Eorlings,” Fastred remarked.

“Did you hear, Echil? I believe that was a compliment,” Bádon said. “A Ranger would, of course, have no knowledge of either horses nor the building of pens.”

Fastred snorted. “Pens, perhaps. Though I will grant that you seem to understand horses better than your southern kin seems to do, if what I have seen here is the rule.”

Bádon laughed. It was a soft sound in the darkness, barely perceptible, yet to Fastred it was clearer than the shouts borne from beyond the City. “Our luck,” the Ranger said. “They would have not needed your skill had their own been greater.”

They left the horses there, with their tack, in the pens. Echil tried to argue that Fastred, with his greater understanding of horses, should be the one to stay and guard them.  Fastred did not take kindly to that idea. He grumbled about it all the way up the path, all the way up to the cave. It was better than thinking of his fears.

“You brought it on yourself,” Bádon said.

“I know,” Fastred said. He fell silent. There was little for them to do but to wait. Wait, and keep watch. The cave was chilly, but Bádon had prepared for that as well. At the far back of the cave, where the light would not reach the opening, the Rangers had prepared a fire. There was enough wood to keep it burning all night, and they had prepared torches as well.

Bádon lit the fire. The warmth was welcome. Fastred leaned back against the wall and rested. The flicker from the fire danced on the walls, on their faces. Bádon looked up and caught the glimmer of metal around Farsted’s throat.

“I had forgotten,” Bádon said.

“What?”

“We forgot; you still have that collar.” Bádon began to move. Fastred did not; he did not even open his eyes. But Bádon found what he was looking for; a strange piece of metal he drew from the pack they had left there. He crouched down beside Fastred.

Fastred opened one eye.

“No need to move,” Bádon said. “There should be enough light.”

“I thought you did not have the skill?”

“Not with bad tools,” Bádon replied. “These are good. Now lean back and think of Rohan.”

…

“The shadow is leaving.”

They could all feel it. Before Húrin spoke they had felt the first stirring of the heart that heralded hope: the fear receded. Slowly it withdrew, and now it lifted and their hearts soared with it. They rose from where they had been sitting, hunched together on the ground, and followed where their hearts led. The tunnels were no longer dark, their feet did not stumble and the silence between them was light. The shadow was leaving; hope still remained.

…

“I thought Rangers were silent and stern,” Fastred complained. Bádon did not answer, for at that moment his hand slipped. Fastred grunted at the tug of the collar. “I think I would rather wait,” he said, “and have Húrin, or whoever taught him, pick the lock. Your skill is worse than your jests.”

“Ah, but since my jests are very good, my skill must be too.”

Fastred glared.

Bádon sighed and pushed him back against the wall. “I do have some skill,” he said, all mirth gone. “And dwelling on our fears serves us not now. But I see that you cannot let it go, so come! Tell me what is weighing on your heart; shared, the burden might scatter and disperse.”

Fastred did not answer. Not at once. He had already told of his dream to both his king, and others. They had not been able to help, why would Bádon be different? Bádon did not pressure him, but despite the lack of prompting – or perhaps because of it – Fastred found himself retelling his dream again.

Bádon offered no comments. He worked in silence while Fastred spoke, and said nothing when he was done. The lock opened at last, and the collar fell away. Fastred threw it across the floor of the cave and it clattered loudly where it bounced across the stone. Silence ruled again when it had come to rest.

“Well?” Fastred asked at length. “Have you nothing to say?”

“Halbarad,” Bádon said.

“Who?”

“Húrin could have told you of him. He led the company that rode at the Chieftain’s summons. His kinsman and standard-bearer. He fell at the battle of the Pelennor, some say to protect the Chieftain; I do not know the truth of it, but any of us would. The man in your dream made me think of him.”

Fastred did not know what to say to that. Knowing who the man speaking in his dream was seemed less helpful than he had hoped, and he said as much.

“Then what will ease your fears?”

“I am not afraid.” But even in the flickering half-light of the fire, Bádon gave him a look that called him on his lie. “Not really, not as such…” but he had to concede defeat. He feared for Éomer king. The dark cave and darker tunnel did not help; Fastred knew not how long the walk would be, or what maze might lie beyond the firelight. What creatures owned the world beyond the circle of light? Would the shades of Men linger here, as once near Dunharrow, and would they yield as the shadows there had done?

“You need not fear the darkness here,” Bádon said, as if he guessed his thoughts. “I followed the paths here to their end, and the way is easily found; just one tunnel, carved along the caves and passages that nature provided. I followed it until I found the entrance to the City. The door was open, and hidden well; none walks the Hallows these days.”

…

“This is the entrance to the dungeon,” Damrod said.

He had stopped, and the others behind him. Húrin pressed to the front, feeling his way along the tunnel-walls. They had risked no light. He felt the stone give way to wood. Rough-hewn planks, with gaps filled with mortar between. Or so he guessed – it felt too soft for stone. He found no hinges or any way to open the door.

“Where…?” but Damrod silenced him. Húrin felt him lean against the wall, and followed his example. Ears pressed against wood, they listened for signs of movement, or sounds, beyond.

“I hear nothing,” Damrod said. “There might still be guards about that I cannot hear, but if we are to enter, we must risk it. I have shovels to remove the wall, it should go quick; we made it thin.”

It was. Thin planks and mortar were all that kept the wall together. Húrin even thought that they could have broken through without any tools. _They must have planned for that possibility,_ he realised. _They thought to break out, not in._

More darkness greeted them on the other side, but the dark was tinted with grey. A corridor lay before them, with closed doors on each side. Each had a hatch with a small, barred window behind that would have let them look in on small cells – if there had been light. But all the cells in the corridor were empty and dark.

Six small cells on their right, four bigger ones on their left, and the corridor met another. From that opening they could sense light; a greyness less dark, rather, than any true light.

“The stairs are that way,” Damrod whispered. “Straight ahead are more cells, but the main part of the dungeon lies beyond the stairs. My guess is that he is there; this part has not been finished.”

Éomer did not try to keep his voice down, if there were guards to hear them, they would have heard when the wall was broken down. “The cells on this side were empty, but I would rather not have to go back if we search the others, and he is not there. It will be quicker to finish here before we move on. How much further down this passage?”

“A little shorter than we have walked, some ten paces further down.” Damrod still kept his voice down.

“ _That_ was far longer than ten steps.”

“Yards,” Húrin translated. He led the way, anxious to find his Chieftain, and ignored Éomer’s muttering about obsolete _ganghere_ measurements.

The cells at the end of the corridor did not have doors, and though they did not expect to find anyone, Éomer stepped into them. The cell on the right side was small; a man could, if he were not too tall, lie down along the walls, but nothing more. Éomer would not have had much room to stretch out himself. The walls were roughly hewn and there was nothing in the room.

The cell on the other side was larger, and better made.

“The larger cells are meant for two,” Damrod said. “These are the last; I worked on them myself when the work was shut down.”

“How many does this prison hold?”

“More than a hundred,” Damrod said. “Unless they put more in each cell than they are meant for.”

“Then let us linger no more.”

“The corridors are wide,” Húrin remarked as they walked back.

Damrod gave a snort. “Yes,” he said. “The Corsair guards complained that the prison passages were too narrow; there was too little room for them to comfortably drag their prisoners around.”

Silence and darkness pressed in on them, echoing down the corridor. This prison was new, but the image of one prisoner, dragged because he could not walk, lingered in their minds. Éomer pushed it back, but he could not dislodge it.

They reached the other corridor. “This connects to all the other passages,” Damrod explained. “And to the stairs. They lead to the guardhouse south of the Tower; if we are to gain the hidden tunnel we must pass through it.”

“You said nothing of a guardhouse,” Borondir said. “How are we to pass that unseen?”

“They do not sleep there; it is where they take their meals, or amuse themselves when not on post. There might be a guard there now, but Golwen should be able to dispatch him. Or silence him.

“Lethril might be free to help him; my guess is that any feast would have ended when the fighting grew too hot.” Damrod stopped. They had reached the stairs. Dark and narrow the stair twisted its way up through the rock. Burning torches had been left at the bottom, and the light was blinding to their eyes. Damrod took one, and passed the other to Bergil.

“ _Who_ might help?” Éomer asked.

“Lethril is a widower, her husband served in the Guard. She has often helped us, and Mablung knows her well. She was the woman I spoke of, one of the servants for the feasts.”

Éomer nodded. He turned to Bergil: “You know the sign. Keep watch; if any comes but Golwen, give us warning.” Bergil nodded, and began the climb. He turned the corner of the winding stairs and soon even the light disappeared from their sight.

“Now for our search.”

…

“The Hallows?”

Fastred straightened and tensed. Bádon looked at him. “Yes,” he said. “The Hallows. Where else?”

“Éomer king did not say the entrance was in the Hallows; it is in the Tower.”

“You are mistaken. I looked through the door myself and saw the Hallows. I told the king as much.”

Fastred breathed at the news, but still he was uneasy. “Why did not the King say as much?” he wondered. “He did not speak of any change in plans.” He paused, then asked: “What did you tell the King? Do you remember your words?”

“Echil bore the news,” Bádon answered. “I told him to say that the passage was open, that I had followed it to the end, and that there were no guards.”

Fastred grabbed his arm. “Did you bid him say more? Did you tell him of the Hallows? Did Echil see the entrance too?”

“No.”

He had not known fear before. This, _this_ was fear, hot and cold. Washing over him and draining the blood from his limbs, stealing his strength.

_They do not know!_

Fastred rose. His strength was back, his purpose clear; his fears had become real and now he could act. If only there were time. He seized a torch and lit it in the fire.

“Where are you going?”

Fastred did not answer, he turned and ran.

“Come back!”

But Fastred ran and did not look back. His feet beat against the rock, crying _No time. No time._

…

Bergil reached the top of the stair. It was tall and narrow; the guards could not drag a prisoner up or down them with any ease. Why, when the tunnels below were made wide, Bergil did not know, and could not guess at. He only knew that it would be hard to help the King up the stairs if he could not walk himself.

The top of the stairs widened somewhat, and the last step was more of a wide ledge with room for three people to stand. It made the purpose of the narrow stairs clear; here the guards could easily stop any who tried to escape and fight their way up. He was lucky that there were no guards waiting for him.

The door was heavy and thick. It had no lock on the inside, only a simple handle, and it was far too thick for Bergil to hear through. He grabbed the handle and pulled.

At first the door did not budge. He did not know if it was because the door was locked, or just too heavy for him, so he tried again. He gripped the handle with both hands and put all his weight into the pull. While still young in the eyes of his people, Bergil was full-grown, and slowly, slowly the door began to slide open.

The room on the other side was lit with torches along the walls and on the two rows of columns that divided it in three. The pillars stood closer to the walls, making the middle space the larger, with tables and benches for the guards to sit and eat and talk. In the passages between the columns nothing stood, but Bergil caught the gleam of metal between the torches.

“That was foolhardy done, young one.” Golwen stood by the nearest pillar. The light flickered on his face. “You did not know what awaited on the other side.”

“Would you have opened the door on this side?” Bergil asked. He stepped into the room, closer to the scribe. “Would you have known when I would be here?”

“No.” Golwen gave a smile. “I have debated the wisdom of doing so for some time.”

“And when would you have decided on its wisdom, had I not risked the door?”

“Likely not,” Golwen admitted. “Not until too late. Still, it was foolhardy.” His eyes flickered, and Bergil sensed the movement from behind too late. Before he could call a warning, he was silenced.

…

The torch burned with a clear, steady flame; no draft disturbed it here, deep underneath the Citadel. It lit the passages of the dungeon, casting soft, warm light on walls that would never know other warmth. That never would soften, even if the years turned the City to dust.

They had looked into every cell they had passed, all empty. Beside the stairs there had been one room larger than the rest. For questioning. Damrod had not said so, but they had all known as soon as they saw it.

It, too, was empty.

They started down the fourth – or was it the fifth? – row of cells. Empty. Once more all were empty.

“Could Golwen have been mistaken?” Borondir asked.

“He has not been before,” Damrod answered.

“Never?” Húrin asked.

“Not in the last ten years,” Damrod confirmed.

Aduiar gave a sound of unbelief at that. “I do not trust a man that is never wrong,” he said.

“What then?” Damrod asked. “Do you wish to turn back now? Give up your plan, because of empty cells and a man that has given no reason for us to mistrust him in ten years?”

“I gave the Enemy no reason for mistrust the last ten years,” Aduiar answered, but his words drowned in the answer of Húrin and Éomer, given as one voice:

“No!”

“There is one more passage to search,” Éomer added. “It will do no harm to search it and find nothing, and much to leave it, and the lord Aragorn, by losing faith now. I am certain that the _dwimmerlaik_ was here; it felt too close to have been in the Citadel above, and I do not think it would be here, unless he was too.”

They walked back to the main corridor, and found the last row. It mirrored the first, with smaller cells on one side, and bigger ones on the other. They turned left, and tried each door. They found them locked, but even through the small barred window the torch gave enough light for them to see.

Empty.

…

Golwen hesitated. “I…”

“You have done well. Return to your quarters; leave the Kings to us.”

“Yes, lord.”

With a bow, he left.

…

Deep under the Citadel, the torch flickered. Dancing figures of light and shadow surrounded them, distorting their faces. Éomer reached the second door in the last part of the dungeon, one of the bigger cells. He tugged at the door. Locked, as the others had been. It did not signify much. He opened the hatch in the door and brought the torch close. Close enough that the heat from it flickered across his face.

In the mountain tunnel, another torch spluttered. Smoke trailed behind it where it flew through the dark.

_No time, no time, no time!_

Fastred ran. Stumbling over the uneven floor, scrambling along tunnel walls; two times already he had been forced to turn back by dead ends, for in his haste he would turn at the wrong corner, and only when he came back did he see the marker Bádon had left. But the markers were but of little help; they showed the way out, away from the City, not the way in. He could taste blood, running harder than he ever could remember.

_No time. No time left._

…

The cell was dark, but there, slumped against the wall, was the figure of a man.

“Lord Aragorn.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Here ends book one of “Where the Grass Grows Green.”

The story will be continued in book two: “Where the Grass Grows Green II: On Bended Knee.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Númenórean measurement ragna (= pace or step) was based on the average stride of a Man, but since the Númenóreans were taller than other Men, their ragna was about one yard. I have used pace as an English translation since Damrod is not speaking a language everyone understands. But though their height has dwindled since the fall of Númenór, their measurements, I imagine, would not have changed. But though Éomer knows the language, it does not follow that he knows the measurements.
> 
> I will shortly begin to post the first chapters of the second book, and hope to post those chapter that have been readied for publications relatively quickly. Once I ave caught up with the posting, new chapters will be posted once a month.


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